


The Denmark Habitat

by FoolishWit



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolishWit/pseuds/FoolishWit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wars are over, and peace has settled. The idyllic, isolated Habitats have allowed life to continue despite the environmental damage done to the Earth. Grace Hammond is content with her somewhat charmed life until her father is taken from her, and her world tilts into one of conspiracy and revenge. (Genderswap Hamlet, begins just prior to events of the play.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1, Scene 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick cheat sheet for everybody: I changed all the names.  
> Grace Hammond............Hamlet  
> Horace Wren..................Horatio  
> Rose..............................Rosencrantz  
> Gordon..........................Guildenstern  
> Joanna Poulsen..............Ophelia  
> Leith Poulsen.................Laertes  
> Dr. Poulsen....................Polonius  
> Chancellor Hammond....Hamlet Sr.  
> Maraam Kilroy...............Gertrude  
> Ansel Claude.................Claudius  
> Chief Forkin..................Fortinbras

...:::...

“You’re late! Come on! I can’t believe you’re late!” Grace almost tackled Wren as he approached the table where his friends all waited. Plates and empty glasses greeted him reproachfully; a drink was pushed into his hand. Grace kissed him on the cheek and pointed at the open stool right next to hers. “We’d planned on four, and I’ve been ordering with that in mind since we arrived, so now you’ve got some work to do, my friend!”

Wren made a show of stretching as he raised the purple shot he had been given to his lips, although he hated alcohol distilled from plums. “That almost made me wish I hadn’t come!” Wren spluttered after he swallowed, grimacing as he coughed. “That was foul. You  _ know  _ I hate those!” he scolded Grace. 

“Then maybe you should have been here on time to stop me from ordering them!” she taunted playfully, handing him another brightly colored drink. “Here. We’re already several drinks in--you have to catch up!” 

“Wait, hang on, first thing’s first…” Bypassing the seat saved for him, Wren set the second drink down on the table and enveloped the guest of honor in a hug. “Congratulations, Joey,” he said warmly. 

“Thank you!” Jo replied, returning the embrace tightly. “And thank you for coming out tonight to celebrate!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, his smile fading slightly as he sat down and realized how much alcohol he had waiting for him. “Well this explains why you practically fell into my arms a second ago,” Wren said, tilting his head toward Grace, but not taking his eyes off the array of full and varied cocktail glasses in front of him. He rolled his shoulders as if he were preparing for a fight. “You’ve already had this much to drink?” he asked incredulously.

“It’s a special occasion!” Grace insisted, raising her own drink in the direction of Jo. “We’re here to celebrate Jo’s graduation!”

“And here I thought we were celebrating her new career!” Rose chimed in, raising her glass towards Grace’s.

“We’re being thrifty and using her graduation drinks to also celebrate her job,” Gordon said, offering a solution that allowed both women to be correct. His voice was almost too quiet to be heard over the increasing noise in the pub, so Rose reached out and turned up the volume on his virtual form hologram projector. “To Jo!” came through the speaker on the small pod much louder, and Gordon raised an empty, translucent hand, his fingers curled as if he were holding a glass like the others.

“To Jo!” Wren agreed, joining in the toast. Despite Gordon’s non corporeal form, everyone around the table inclusively brought their glass close enough that they would have tapped his outstretched hand if they’d been physically able to do so. Wren brought his glass back to his mouth, and Grace quickly placed her hand under the bottom of it, preventing him from lowering it back down. 

“Catch up! Catch up!” she coaxed, teasing. 

Wren batted her hand away, and coughed, setting his now half-finished drink down. “Remind me not to show up late to these parties anymore,” he managed, shaking his head and coughing again. 

“Yeah, why the tardiness?” Grace asked. “You’re usually Mr. Punctuality?”

“I had the archives pulled up and totally lost track of the time.”

“Give us a call next time,” Rose said, pointing at the others. “These three were convinced you’d gotten run over by an SDC.”

“There hasn’t been an injury due to a self driving car in over eighty years, guys,” Wren said, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, then why didn’t you call?” Grace asked, nudging his drink closer as a hint.

Wren wrinkled his nose apologetically. “My Device is dead. I must have forgotten to dock it when I got to the library.”

“Yours dies by late afternoon if you don’t charge it? What’s wrong with it?” Grace asked as he pulled his outdated Device from his pocket and tossed it like a lifeless brick onto the table. “Oh, well  _ that’s _ why,” Grace said, rolling her eyes and prodding Wren in the side. “I can’t believe you’re still using one of the old Devices! The keypads only light in one direction, they have limited resolution for inter-hab holograms, and the new ID Chip med upgrades have made half the storage capacity on that thing redundant!” Grace pulled her own Device from her pocket. “The new ones have been out for almost a year, dude,” she pointed out, reaching for Wren’s to compare the two.

Wren’s reflexes weren’t dulled by alcohol, so he snatched his Device from the table before his friend could reach it. Raising an eyebrow, he curled the thin electronic box in against his chest defensively. “Maybe I _ like _ my old Device,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully. “And besides, those new ones weren’t just handed out with the monthly staples, Grace. The Wealth Distribution Equality Act evened the playing field a little, but it didn’t stop the rich from being rich. Not  _ everyone’s  _ family invested in scandium in the twenties!” he teased, amidst hoots and whistles as everyone pretended to be scandalized by his jab. 

Grace bowed her head and held up her hands in defeat with a smile. “Okay, okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Wren’s family was among the comfortable class that received Humanity Staples each month: food, clothing, and other goods necessary to ensure every citizen was healthy and provided for, preventing poverty and suffering in society. Since more than seventy percent of the population received these benefits, it wasn’t unusual or cause for embarrassment, but Wren loved giving Grace a hard time about the fact that she’d grown up without them. The Hammonds were one of the richest families in the Denmark Habitat, due mostly to an inherited fortune that had been passed down through the last few generations. 

“So, how does it feel to be officially out of school with a degree and a job?” Rose asked, leaning around Gordon to look at Jo. With an exaggerated pout, she added, “I only ask because--despite being the youngest person at this table by several years--you’re the only one who has achieved this distinction.”

“Rose, seriously, did you have to remind us all about that?” Wren asked, wrinkling his nose. 

“I have a job,” Gordon pointed out. 

“Okay, yes, you do, technically,” Rose corrected herself. “You’re the highest paid lab rat on Earth.” She winked, puckered her lips at his hologram, and blew a kiss in his direction. Passing his hand through hers where it rested on the table as if he could have grabbed it, he smiled back. 

Jo took a sip of her drink and shook her head. “The only reason you three are all still in school is because you’re working on masters degrees. Or a doctorate!” she added, looking at Rose.

“Be that as it may,” Grace interrupted, “it’s still incredibly impressive that by twenty-one years old you’ve managed to graduate with full honors, win a Progression Award for your ideas in--in… Don’t tell me… in...?” 

Jo let her friend struggle for a moment with an amused smile on her face before putting poor Grace out of her misery. “Sustainable Mimics and Apiary-Dependent Agriculture,” Jo supplied. Grace had never been able to remember the details of Jo’s chosen field of study. Wren always joked that Jo didn’t have a green thumb; her entire right arm was green, while Grace couldn’t even manage to regularly dust the fake plants in her living room. 

“Yes--that-- _ and _ secure an amazing job with the Den’s local environment department.” Grace grinned across the table, and Jo bit her lip and frantically prayed that the flush in her cheeks wasn’t terribly noticeable in the dim light. “I used to think of you as an adorable kid sister, but these days the age gap seems like it’s all but disappeared. You’re an awesome human being, Jo, and we’re so lucky to have you in our lives. To Jo!” she finished with a flourish, and raised her glass, prompting the others to do the same. 

“You’re going to need more drinks soon,” Gordon pointed out, waving an ineffectual hand through the empty glassware littering the table. 

“If I have too many more, I won’t be able to find my way home,” Jo protested. “I’ll end up sleeping here at the Nunnery!”

“No, no--” Grace protested. “We’ve got you covered. Rose is very responsible when it comes to personal portion control, and Gordon’s got a full charge, so even though Wren and I will be completely useless to you by the end of the night,  _ those two _ \--” Grace pointed at the pair seated between Jo and herself. “--will make sure you get home safe and sound.” 

With a sigh and a smile, Jo gave in. “Okay, one more, but can we make this one a little lighter than the last few?”

“Nope, we are welcoming you into our little grown-up gang with the full-octane stuff,” Grace said immediately, elbowing Wren to catch the server behind him. “We need five aviations here, and another basket of the buffalo kale chips!” she called in the direction of the server, shouting above the increasing noise in the pub. 

Before the order could be confirmed, Wren spun on his stool and caught the server with a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning toward her. “I’m sure my friend here meant to say please, but she was raised in a terribly backwards household, and we’re only just now beginning to civilize her.” Wren rolled his eyes and continued, “Doesn’t ask for things nicely; look at her--doesn’t even take her hat off indoors--talks with her mouth full…” Wren’s smile grew as the server’s stressed frown slipped, and the corners of her lips began to turn up. “We’d love five aviations when you get a chance, but there’s no rush, since we’re celebrating; we don’t want the party to end too early…” 

With a nod and a genuine smile, the server disappeared back into the crowd.

“What, no number? No date? No invitation back to your place this evening?” Grace teased. 

“We’re here for Jo tonight, Grace, I’m trying to  _ not  _ monopolize the attention,” Wren said with a self-satisfied smile, tapping the front brim of Grace’s hat down over her eyes. She swatted blindly at his hand and quickly adjusted it in order to see again. “Besides, I know where she works,” Wren added, gesturing around them. “When I want a date, I’ll just come back and ask her then.”

“Ugh, you are  _ such _ an egotistical flirt,” Grace groaned, rolling her eyes. 

“Is there a problem with that?” Wren asked.

“Well...you could be a bit more selective,” Rose suggested. When Wren raised his eyebrows questioningly, she continued, “It’s just that it’s hard to take you seriously when you flirt so shamelessly with everyone. Basically anything that moves. And even then, I think you would bend that rule and turn your charms on an inflatable cactus if that was the only thing in the room and you were bored.”

Gordon laughed and nodded enthusiastically. “I think I actually saw that happen once at one of the Tozer parties last year.”

“Oh, come on!” Wren tossed a cardboard drink coaster through his friend, feeling abandoned. It sailed wildly into the back of another patron’s head, and Wren shouted a hasty apology at the glaring man. Turning back to Grace and Rose, he said primly, “I take offense to that, ladies. My standards are much higher than ‘anything that moves.’ By your estimation, that would include transports, Leith Poulsen, and that little plastic drinking bird in a top hat that sits on Grace’s desk.”

“Oh--no--no, wait, uh-uh…” Rose suddenly pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes as if trying to push out an image. “Now I’m imagining Leith trying to flirt.”

This was met by a rousing chorus of laughter and horror, followed by several impressions of what an amorous Leith might entail, the most successful of which was performed by his sister. 

“Good evening,” Jo said, barely suppressing a smile as she pretended to greet Grace with a comically deepened voice, rounding the table toward her. “My name is Leith Poulsen, and I’ve taken the liberty of sending my CV to your Device. I saw you here last night, and since I never begin an undertaking without thoroughly checking the background of those individuals involved, I used my security clearance with the Habitat Government to run facial recognition on you this morning when I arrived at the office at seven a.m. sharp.” Amidst snorts of laughter, Jo extended a stiff hand toward Grace and cupped her cheek awkwardly as she stepped closer. “And what a symmetrical face it is, too.” 

“Uggghh!” Grace gave a shudder and squeezed her eyes closed. “Ew, I feel dirty. Do they have shower stalls in the restrooms here?” she cried desperately, swatting Jo’s hand away. Jo moved to return to her seat on the other side of the table, but Grace slid a hand around her waist and scooted over, pulling Jo close enough to share her wide stool.

“That was good, Jo,” Wren admitted, “but I think Leith would use more four- and five-syllable words to  _ really _ turn a lady on--” 

“People do seem to underestimate the seductive power of a good vocabulary.” The deep voice startled the group at the table, and everyone looked up in surprise to see Leith standing several steps away, easily missed in the dim lighting and thick crowd of the pub. 

“ _ Crap _ ,” Grace said flatly, not bothering to hide her belief that the quality of their little party had just taken a nosedive. 

Wren was the first to recover, smoothly stating, “I don’t underestimate it. In fact, I myself have been accused of circumlocution on occasion.”

“Well,  _ that’s  _ a big word,” Rose said quickly, thoroughly grateful for the conversational distraction as Jo slid quickly off of Grace’s stool to greet her big brother. 

“Sounds dirty,” Gordon whispered theatrically, joining in. 

“It certainly  _ is _ a big word,” Wren agreed, puffing up his chest proudly. “I know lots of big words. In fact, I don’t mean to brag, but some have even said that the size of my--”

“No, no--” Grace cut him off. “Whatever you’re going to say? Don’t. I don’t want to hear some thinly veiled double entendre that demonstrates just how witty you are,” she explained, turning from the table toward the new member of their party. “Leith! It’s been too long. I see you’re still adept at sneaking up on people in an incredibly creepy way?” 

Leith didn’t respond as Grace leaned in to give him a quick, cursory hug devoid of emotion, which was returned in similar awkward fashion. Grace and Leith--though closer in age than Grace and Jo--had never gotten along. Grace loved life, and the pursuit of knowledge, and the thousand beautiful things that popped into her head at any given moment during the day, and she found Leith to be incredibly dull and straight-laced. As kids, on more than one occasion, Leith had discovered some stunt or hijinks she’d planned, and he had invariably tattled on her to the nearest authority figure. Worse still, he never seemed to feel a moment’s remorse about it. As teenagers, he would debunk her theories and plans of adventure with a straight face and a stern affect, scolding her about breaking rules and not taking life seriously. 

Worst of all, Grace hated that he didn’t see what a wonderful father he had. Dr. Poulsen was the perfect dad as far as she was concerned, and yet Leith seemed to only have disappointment--bordering on contempt--for him. He’d never bothered to hide the fact that he considered Dr. Poulsen’s appointment as a clinic physician in a generic Community Habitat to be an embarrassing waste of talent. The Medical Habitat, in Leith’s opinion, was the only appropriate place to be for any doctor worth their salt. The stereotypical Community doctor was past their prime, or too stupid to have made it in the Medical Habitat environment. Grace knew neither of those things described Dr. Poulsen, but his son seemed staunchly opposed to being proud of his father.

And disrespecting Dr. P was something Grace had never been able to abide. 

Leith nodded a silent greeting to both Rose and Gordon before turning to Wren. “Horace.” Leith offered his hand. Wren’s jaw clenched slightly, and there was a moment’s hesitation before he reached out and accepted the handshake. 

“You know, your dedication to calling me by my first name over the years would be admirable if it weren’t so annoying,” he pointed out. 

Leith frowned. “I suppose I just feel that going by one’s last name denotes a certain impersonality.” 

“ _ Impersonality? _ Look who’s talk--” Grace’s mumbled dig was cut short as Rose kicked her under the table.

“And the usual convention has always been to create a nickname from your given name, not your family name,” Leith added.

“Oh, yes,  _ please _ enlighten me,” Wren said testily. “What nickname do you think I should go by?  _ ‘Convention’ _ , as you suggest, typically forms the nickname by  _ shortening _ the name--taking either the beginning or the end. Occasionally adding a -y. That leaves me with ‘Whore’ and ‘Rass.’ Neither of which improves with the addition of the afore-mentioned -y.” Wren turned back to the table with a sour look on his face and reached for his half-empty glass.

“Do you have a middle na--?”

“Barnardo,” Wren said miserably into his drink before finishing it with one large swallow. Setting the empty glass down on the table, he gave a single, quick shake of his head. “ _ So _ not better.”

“Well, _ I _ think ‘Wren’ suits you,” Rose said. “And since it’s all I’ve ever called you, switching now would be next to impossible, so I think you’re stuck as far as  _ I’m _ concerned.”

“Here, too,” Gordon agreed, raising a finger to be counted. 

“Yep, totally stuck,” Grace agreed with a smile, leaning over and throwing an arm across Wren’s shoulders. 

“ _ He’ll _ never switch,” Jo said, shooting her brother a patient smile. “He’ll call you Horace until the day he dies. Just like he’ll never call me anything but Joanna.”

“Well, he can call you whatever he wants to; you’ll always be Jo to us,” Grace said, as their server arrived at the table carrying a large tray of vaguely blue drinks in martini glasses. “And today, officially, you are ‘Jo The Graduate’, so--” Grace passed the glasses around the table, and offered the back of her hand to the waiter to be scanned. “--I propose  _ yet another  _ toast--”

“This is the fourth one!” Jo lamented, slightly embarrassed at the attention. She accepted the drink Grace handed to her while Gordon offered Leith one of the drinks in Wren’s backlog, since Grace hadn’t ordered enough to include the new addition to their party. Leith gave him a polite nod of thanks. 

“-- _ another toast _ \--” Grace repeated, her voice increasing in volume, “--to the newest member of the Den’s work force, the sweetest person I know, and one  _ hell _ of a kickass environmentalist… Jo Poulsen!”

A resounding chorus of various shouted congratulations erupted from the table as the cocktails were held aloft and clinked over the center of the table.

Jo grinned as she took a generous swallow of her drink and set it down decisively on the table. “I’ll be right back,” she announced.

“No! Where are you going?” Grace asked, winding her arms around Jo’s waist again and tugging her back onto their previously shared stool. “This is your party--there’s no way I’m letting you up. The last time you did this you tried to buy a round for all of us, and that’s not gonna happen tonight.”

Jo smiled as Grace hugged her tighter and swept Jo’s hair to one side to rest her chin on her shoulder. 

“My bladder kindly requests you let me leave the table,” Jo explained. “I’ll be right back--no funny business, I promise.”

“Oh, okay,  _ fine _ ,” Grace grumbled, teasing. “I guess if you _ have _ to…” Jo was released, and she made a beeline for the back of the dark stone hall. 

The Nunnery wasn’t the only bar in the Den, but it was certainly the most interesting, and the most expensive. Years ago, as the habitats were first being constructed, teams of experts were assembled to collect and preserve the works of art around the globe that hadn’t been destroyed in the wars. Paintings, sculptures, and even buildings of cultural significance were assigned to each habitat, while the great libraries of the world were plundered for copies of as many books as possible. The University habitat housed the main collection of literature, but the entire population was able to access digital copies of everything on any Device. 

The Nunnery was one of six relocated buildings brought into the Den and reconstructed, piece by piece. The old, repurposed cathedral was a small one, by historical standards, but impressive nonetheless: nothing in the Den remotely resembled the old, worn stone walls, or the steep, gothic struts that climbed alongside the towers on top. The stained glass windows made rainbows dance on the walls if the sun hit them at the right angle in the afternoon, and the mix of hanging lanterns, candelabras, and chandeliers made for a dim, other-worldly atmosphere at night that was like nowhere else. The standard lighting in every other structure in the Den was tested, and uniform, and  _ optimal _ , and the gloom of the Nunnery was delightfully mysterious.

Jo pushed the door of the restroom open when she was done and ran straight into her big brother. 

“Oh--excuse me, I’m sorry--” Jo stepped back from the broad chest she’d collided with and looked up. “Leith? What are you doing back here? The men’s room is over on the south wall--”

Leith looked down at his sister seriously. “Your infatuation with Grace Hammond needs to end. Now.”    
  


...:::...

TBC.


	2. Act 1, Scene 2

...:::...

Jo opened her mouth to object, but Leith hushed her. “I haven’t said anything before now because I figured it was just a  phase. A crush you’d grow out of. But every time I come back to visit you seem more and more enamored with her, and it’s a _problem_ , Joanna.”

A woman approached them and squeezed past down the hallway. Jo stepped aside quickly and looked down at the ground, hating the feeling of embarrassment that crept up her neck. Other than Grace, of course, her older brother was the last person on Earth she wanted to have this discussion with.

“Grace is not flirting with you, even if it seems that way,” Leith explained unemotionally. “No matter how many times she sips out of your drink or puts her arms around you, she doesn’t mean any of it beyond the affection of an older sister for one of her siblings. She’s paying you as much attention as she would a puppy.”

Jo’s gut twisted, and she wished she’d refused the last drink that had been shoved into her hands.

“And even if she hadn’t grown up thinking of herself as part of our family, she’s not someone you should set your sights on. That silver spoon she was born with makes her virtually incapable of truly understanding what life is like for anyone at the Humanity level. Which, with your job in the farming sector, is what you’ll always be.” Leith noted the twitch under his sister’s left eye. It was her tell: a small, unconscious signal that she was upset by the topic of conversation but unwilling to argue the point. He’d always wished he’d been able to open his little sister’s eyes to the people of the world, but it was no use. Years of trying, and he still thought she was as naive and malleable as a child.

“Grace is a good person,” Jo said quietly, refusing to look at her brother.

“Grace isn’t a _bad_ person,” Leith corrected. “But she’s toiling away at a masters degree in a useless, historical field; she doesn’t work for a living; she doesn’t help people.” Leith ticked off his points on the fingers of one hand. “She’s a Hammond, with Hammond money, and as such, she could play toy soldiers all day long for the rest of her life and still have more money than every other family in the Den. There is _no_ substance to that girl,” Leith said, gesturing back toward their table.

Another eye twitch.

“Joanna, I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Leith said quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m saying this because I don’t want to see you embarrassed. Which is exactly what you’ll be if Grace finds out about your little crush. Even if she were an exemplary, mature human being, and even if she _didn’t_ think of you as her sister, I don't thinkwomen are her type. You are setting yourself up for failure in several different ways, and mark my words: this is not going to end well if you tell her.”

Jo shuffled her feet slightly and nodded at the ground.

“Okay?” Leith prompted.

“ _Okay_ ,” Jo hissed, desperate for the conversation to be over. She wished she had the courage to fire back at him that he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

Leith nodded and turned away, walking back toward their table. Jo closed her eyes and leaned back against the cool stone wall behind her, counting slowly to twenty. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, looking for her Device, and her fingers brushed over a small, firm piece of paper. Jo’s shoulders sagged as she pulled it out and reread the card that had been tucked into the bouquet delivered to her home that morning.

 _Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl! Congrats again, Jo!  
_ _Love you to the moon and back,_  
Grace xoxo

Jo bit her lip, read the card one last time, and tossed it in the nearest trash can on her way back to the table.

“She’s back! Finally!” Grace bellowed as Jo reclaimed her original seat, quietly slipping onto her stool as if she could join the party again without being noticed. “Here--this one was yours!” Grace leaned across the table to push Jo’s drink toward her.

“Thanks,” Jo said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.  

“So, Jo--” Rose noted the slump in Jo’s shoulders, pausing slightly before continuing. “--you haven’t told us what your new job entails!” she prompted brightly, hoping to nudge the new graduate’s mood back toward what it had been before she’d left the table. “I know you’d looked into several different positions. Do you know yet which part of the Den’s Agriculture Department you’ll be in?”

Jo nodded, licking her lips. “The Free Pollination sector,” she said, her voice barely audible above the loud music coming from the DJ at the altar. “Wildflowers... non-edible plants... bee hives...” Not meeting anyone’s eyes, Jo shrugged. “I know it’s not fancy, or--” She cut her eyes toward Leith briefly. “--or influential, but… I still think the work will be interesting.”

“Of course it’ll be interesting!” Rose said, still attempting to coax a smile from Jo. “That was your first choice, right?”

Jo nodded, but said nothing else.

Grace frowned, confused. “What’s going on, Joey--what’s up? Your mood has just…” Grace narrowed her eyes and turned to look at Leith. “Did you say something to her when you left the table a minute ago? You’ve been here all of ten minutes, and you’ve managed to put your foot in it, haven’t you? This is a _graduation party_ , asshole, you don’t corner the guest of honor as soon as you arrive and _insult_ her--”

Jo was quick to jump in. “Grace, no, it’s fine, he didn’t--”

“She just won a Progression Award!” Grace continued, incorrectly assuming that whatever Leith had said to deflate his little sister so effectively had been in regards to her profession. Of _course_ he didn’t respect her chosen career, beekeeping in the Den; just like he didn’t respect his father for working in a small habitat clinic instead of in the Medical Habitat. Stabbing a finger at him, she leaned closer over the table. “She’s got a degree in something so technical that even when I’m stone cold sober I can’t remember the details of it. Her research has already changed the way our plants are grown in the community habitats--”

“I’m aware,” Leith said testily. “I’ve read her--”

“--she’s not just out in the orchards picking apples, or planting kale; her work is _important_.”

“You’re right, her work _is_ important--but so is farming,” Leith interrupted and waved a hand at the food on the table. “What’s wrong with picking fruit? You wouldn’t be able to order your fancy kale chips if people weren’t out there planting it in the first place. The traditional farming positions are a perfectly acceptable way to earn existence pay and monthly staples. Those people work hard for their living.” Leith raised an eyebrow at Grace. “You should try it sometime.”

Grace shoved back from the table angrily, and Wren made a grab for her arm. Jo shot up from her chair and moved quickly to stand in front of Grace, blocking her view of Leith.

“Let’s dance! I want to dance. Grace--” Jo tugged at Grace’s upper arm and looked at her entreatingly. “You keep saying this is my party, and I want to dance. Come dance with me.”

“Jo,” Leith said sharply, shooting his sister a warning look. “I don’t think that’s a good idea--”

Ignoring her brother, Jo gave another pull on Grace’s arm. “And Rose? Rose is going to come, too. Aren’t you, Rose?”

Rose swallowed the last of her drink in one large gulp and pushed herself away from the table. “Of course! Yes! Look! I’m dancing with Jo--come dance with us, Gracey! Let’s go…”

The two girls pulled Grace, still scowling over her shoulder, up the steps to the chancel and into the small throng that had formed in front of the DJ at the alter.

Wren sighed and shook his head, moving over to the stool next to Leith. “I know you and Grace have never gotten along, but you _know_ her, man. You know exactly which buttons to push, and you _had_ to know what you said was going to light her up.”

“She’s spoiled,” Leith said matter-of-factly.

Wren bobbed his head and took another drink. “Yep,” he agreed easily. “But the minute she’s made aware of a deficit in someone else’s life that she can fix, she does it. Whatever it is.” Reaching into his pocket, Wren pulled out his Device. “She made fun of me for having an out-dated Device tonight. I said I like this old model.” Setting it down on the table, he continued, “Within a month she’ll have bought me the newest one. If I refuse the gift, she’ll bug me until I accept it. She won’t expect a single thing in return; she won’t even see it as a big deal.” Gesturing to the mess of empty glasses and picked-over plates of food on the table, he added, “She’s the one who ordered most of this, and she’ll pick up the entire tab tonight without even blinking, because she wanted Jo’s graduation celebration to be spectacular. Because she wanted to _spoil_ her.” Wren took another swig of his drink and put it down on the table, slipping his Device back into his jacket as he stood. “She went to every ceremony and graduation event Jo had this week. This is the first thing you’ve shown up at. Now, I know--” Wren rushed on before Leith could interject. “--you’ve got a big fancy job, and you’re needed in the Bol, and we’re all very impressed, but…” Wren shrugged. “Grace has a good heart. And if nothing else, you should appreciate the fact that she absolutely adores your little sister, and has done everything in her power tonight to make her smile.”

Wren reached across the table, grabbed Gordon’s pod, and clipped it to his belt. “Now, _we’re_ going to go join the girls. I’d invite you to come with us, but I know you hate dancing, so you’ve just inherited the considerable honor of saving our spot for us.” Wren stood as Gordon straightened through his stool, and the pair moved off toward the dance floor, leaving Leith alone at the table.

 

 

...:::...

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People always argue so much about whether Hamlet was actually crazy or just faking it, and if he was actually a depressed, angry prince, or whether we only get a glimpse of him after his father's been murdered and he's been sidelined from University and cut off from his friends. I figured I needed a decent amount of time to get to know Grace and her friends before the crap hits the fan, so their characters are more established. Makes any different behavior later on seem more obvious when you know what their personalities were like when they were happy!


	3. Act 1, Scene 3

 

...:::...

“Are you _ sure _ you’re okay to get home?” Grace asked again as the group stood outside the Nunnery.

“Absolutely fine,” Rose assured her. “I’ve been drinking nothing but Rehydrant cocktails for the last two hours, and besides--” she tapped Gordon’s pod clipped to her bag. “I’ve got my guard dog with me. Anything happens and he’ll hack into every alarm in this place and have scrambled an ambulance to my exact location before you can say ‘over protective’.” 

Gordon smiled dimly in the street light. “We’ll be fine, Grace. Promise.” 

Grace gave Rose a hug and waved at Gordon as the pair headed off in the direction of Rose’s family home. 

“Oh, wait--!” Grace’s face fell as she realized there was a flaw in her plan for the evening. Usually, after a night out at the Nunnery, she walked back to the Poulsen’s home with Jo and crashed in Leith’s old bedroom. “You’re home,” she said, wrinkling her nose in Leith’s direction. They’d come to a silent truce after the spat earlier in the evening, but both of them were still giving the other a purposefully wide berth. 

“Not for long. You can still have my room, as per usual,” Leith said, his voice deep and tired, though he was still standing with irritatingly good posture. “I’m on the first transport out today. Before dawn. I’ll just make some coffee when I get back to our family’s house and then head out.”

“Are you sure…?” Grace asked suspiciously. 

Leith gave her a curt nod. 

“Okay.” Grace turned to Wren and hugged him somewhat inelegantly. “And are  _ you _ sure you’re okay getting home?” Grace asked into his shoulder. “I always worry about you when we leave here--you’ve got farther to stumble home than the rest of us.” 

“ _ Pff _ ,” Wren scoffed, keeping one arm wrapped around Grace while the other fumbled in her jacket pocket. He withdrew her Device and tilted his head, keying in her passcode behind her back. She tried to end the hug, but found herself trapped in the loop of Wren’s long arms as he continued working on his technological fidgeting.

“What--what are you doing?” she asked, confused, trying to crane her head around to see what he was up to behind her back.

Wren finally released her and took a step back, holding out her Device, which she snatched back clumsily. “I’ll be fine!” he said with a smile. “I ordered an esdy. It’ll be here in less than five minutes.” 

“On  _ my _ Device!”

“Mine’s dead! Besides, I thought you wanted to make sure I got home safe?” Wren paused and leaned in, his eyes comically wide. “You  _ do _ want me to get home safe...don’t you?” 

Grace gave a grunt of frustration and waved him off, walking back toward Jo and Leith. “Fine; enjoy riding home in style, you thieving parasite. You’re lucky I adore you. And remember to charge your damn Device next time!”

“Oh, come on!” Wren shouted down the block at Grace’s retreating form. “You have to be impressed at my ability to lift your Device and order a car without you realizing!”

“Shh! You’re drunk!” Grace briefly turned around to hiss at her friend, attempting unsuccessfully to conceal a smile.

“ _ You’re _ drunk!” he bellowed back with a grin.

“Ugh. We could have had  _ one _ more round…” Grace insisted as the trio turned a corner and set off in the direction of the Poulsen’s. “It’s only midnight!”

“It’s after three in the morning and the bar was closing,” Leith corrected her. 

Grace rolled her eyes and gave a huff, linking arms with Jo and taking a few steps ahead of her older brother. Despite Grace’s impressive level of inebriation, she was well aware that the move came off as a childish attempt at exclusion, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

“I think someone’s been messing with the temp controls in the Den,” Grace mumbled, scuffing the heels of her boots as she walked slowly down the sidewalk, unwilling to expend the energy needed to raise her feet properly with each step. 

“I can assure you, there are far too many safeguards in place for anyone to have ‘messed with’ something as crucial as the intra-habitat climate,” Leith intoned blandly, maintaining the space Grace had created behind the two girls. 

Grace wrinkled her nose in response. “I’m cold,” she stated, somewhat petulantly, as if her perception of the temperature was all the proof she needed that something wasn’t as it should be. “I hate being cold. It depresses me...”

“Oh, come on, admit it. You  _ enjoy _ being depressed,” Jo said with a sleepy smile. “It makes you introspective, and that gives you material to talk about yourself. You  _ love _ talking about yourself.”

Grace clutched at her chest and pretended to stumble, affecting a terribly exaggerated imitation of indignation. “Ouch! Look who’s out for blood tonight!” 

“No blood; just honesty,” Jo said, her smile quirking slightly to one side. 

“Mmm, and that’s one of the reasons I love you, Jo,” Grace said, tilting her head onto her friend’s shoulder. As kids, Jo had always been a few inches shorter than Grace, but three or four years ago the younger girl had finally caught up, and now they were almost exactly the same height. “You’re always honest with me, but your truths are never malicious.”

Jo’s smile tightened, but she said nothing. 

...:::...

TBC.


	4. Act 1, Scene 4

 

...:::...

“I see I’ve inherited a second daughter for the evening?”

Dr. Poulsen’s deep voice made Grace smile as she passed through the family’s front door into their entryway. She looked up to find him standing in a robe and glasses in their hallway that led to the bedrooms. His grey hair was mussed from sleep, which made his thinning hairline more obvious. But even in his state of slight disarray, he still managed an air of dignity.

“I was kidnapped, Dr. P,” Grace complained. “These two delinquents grabbed me outside The Nunnery and insisted I come home with them.”

Leith hung his jacket in the hall, nodded at his father, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Dr. Poulsen acknowledged his son before turning his attention back to Grace. “Under my orders, my dear,” he joked with a deadpan expression. “You see, I’ve decided to start a pickpocketing gang to steal the wealth of the Den’s citizens, and we’re trying to recruit you.”

“Well, I’ve got news for you, Fagin,” Grace said, stepping forward to peck a kiss on the older man’s cheek. “I’m not the one you want. Wren’s hands are much sneakier than mine--tell your goons to grab  _ him _ next time.”

Dr. Poulsen chuckled. “Did everyone have a good night?”

Jo nodded, kicking her dirt-stained shoes off onto a mat by the door. “Fantastic.  _ So _ fantastic, in fact, that we didn’t trust Grace to get herself home, and since apparently Leith needs to be on a transport back to the Bol in another two hours, he said Grace can stay in his room like she usually does.”

“I didn’t realize this was such a quick trip?” Dr. Poulsen frowned and raised his voice so Leith could hear him in the next room. 

Grace slumped into a large, comfortable chair in the main living space. “He came back to congratulate his sister. Now that his duty is done, he’s afraid extending his visit will require him to have a meaningful conversation with his family members, and possibly _ \--gasp- _ -even show emotion.” Grace opened one eye to look up at Dr. Poulsen. “And we can’t have that, now can we?” she added, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Careful, Grace, he can still rescind the offer of his bed at any point, and I’ll honor his request,” Dr. Poulsen pointed out, one eyebrow raised. Grace took the gentle admonishment and fell silent. 

Leith reemerged from the kitchen, the sounds of the coffee maker muted in the background. “I needed to make this a quick turnaround,” he said, his hands in his pockets. “The Bolivia Habitat’s elections are next week, and the Vice Chancellor is extremely busy right now. It would be unprofessional to disappear from his campaign for too long at this particular time.” Grace couldn’t shake the sense that his wide-leg stance and straight posture were probably just as detached in a government meeting as they were in his father’s living room. She couldn’t imagine him becoming  _ more _ remote at work. That had to be impossible. 

It was really too bad, because he had decent broad shoulders and a handsome face. He dressed nicely. And if he’d just lay off the gel, his hair would probably be--

Grace cringed and ran her tongue over her teeth as she suppressed a shudder. She was physically evaluating Leith Poulsen. Obviously way too much alcohol had been consumed tonight. 

Leith’s brow creased, and his head tilted slightly as he watched Grace’s face twist in disgust.  _ Crap.  _ Grace hadn’t realized he’d been looking at her. How long had he been aware of her watching him? 

“Are you feeling sick?” Leith asked. “Jo, I think she might need to--”

“No, no,” Grace insisted, shaking her head and pushing herself up out of the chair. “It’s fine. I can hold my liquor. I just…” Grace gave a quick body shake, as if she could shimmy off her previous train of thought. “I just had an unsettling thought and I’d like to scrub the inside of my brain out with some soap. But since that’s physically impossible--” Grace gestured in the direction of the back half of the house. “I think it’s high time I got some sleep.” The fact that it would be in Leith’s bed was unfortunate, but probably unavoidable at this point. Grace just hoped she still had enough alcohol in her system to blur the mental misstep from her memory when she woke up in the morning. 

Dr. Poulsen nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. Jo, can you make sure she’s got everything she needs?”

“On it,” Jo said, following Grace down the hallway. 

As the girls passed Jo’s room, Grace pulled up short, causing Jo to run into the back of her. “Sorry, sorry…” Jo apologized. When Grace didn’t start moving again, she added, “What’s wrong?”

Grace pursed her lips, staring in at Jo’s bed. “Can I just stay in your room tonight?” she asked.

Jo stared at the other girl for a long moment. “...Why?” she finally asked cautiously. 

Grace closed her eyes and shook her head. “No reason.” Starting forward again, she continued, “Actually, it’s because I don’t want to catch Monotony from touching any of your brother’s things. Do you think it’s contagious?”

Jo followed Grace into Leith’s room, grabbing a towel from the shelves in the hall on her way. She set the folded terrycloth down on the stark, low dresser along one wall and turned to lean back against it, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“You know you haven’t thanked Leith yet. For the use of his room,” Jo pointed out. 

Grace sighed dramatically. “You know I love your family, Jo; most days I wish it was mine, instead of the one I got, but--” Grace raised her hands in surrender. “--I just  _ do not get _ your brother. How can such a wonderful, loving family produce someone so…  _ robotic _ ?”

Jo shrugged, looking down at her feet. “He is who he is, Grace. And prickly as he might be, he’s not actually a bad guy.”

Grace’s shoulders slumped, a flare of guilt licking in her chest. “I know, I know…” She palmed her hat off her head and tossed it onto the bed. “But I can’t bring myself to respect someone who doesn’t respect your dad.”

“He respects him… in his own way,” Jo argued.

“I don’t see it,” Grace grumbled, shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it from the back of a chair. “And you still seem to defer to him!  _ And _ your dad. I really hope now that you’ve finished school and gotten a job you’ll exercise that backbone of yours a bit more. I know it’s in there,” she said, pointing a finger at Jo.

Jo sighed. She was exhausted. Due to a multitude of graduation events, she’d had to interact with more people in the last thirty-six hours than she usually saw in a week. She enjoyed the quiet of the environmental section of the habitat, the peaceful whisper of the simulated wind in the trees and crops. She could spend all day in the orchard, or the greenhouse potting flowers, and still have energy to go for a run in the evening. But a few hours of parties and human interaction left her feeling completely drained. 

With a shrug, she admitted, “I live in the family quarters. I’m younger than both of them. I… I guess I just try to be respectful.”

“Have you thought of moving out? I know you won’t have the money to get your own place for years, but you could move in with me? It’s not like my dad ever comes home anymore--he lives in the Chancellor quarters almost full-time now,” Grace offered, dropping heavily to sit on the edge of the bed. Her concentration directed at removing her shoes, she missed the pained expression that passed over Jo’s face. 

“Did you know…” 

Dr. Poulsen’s voice floated into the room from the doorway, but neither occupant turned to look at him. Jo was familiar with her father’s leisurely, drawn-out introductions to his stories, and Grace was intently working on the knots of her shoelaces, hunched over her knees. 

“...that some cultures believe a hat lying on a bed is a bad omen?”

Grace glanced sideways at the hat she’d discarded a moment ago. “Really? Let me guess. Seven years bad luck? All my hair will fall out? My neighbors will take up ancient religious drumming as a hobby and only practice before dawn?”

Jo, having already heard many of these stories while growing up, shook her head and licked her lips, a small, resigned smile playing on her face. “Depends on the culture. Thespians believed it meant one thing, the Italians believed it meant another. Some thought it suggested death or injury, but most consequences centered around never marrying, or being unlucky in love.”

“Pff.” Grace successfully removed her second shoe, and flopped backwards onto the bed. “If I ruled the Earth, I’d get rid of marriage as an institution altogether.” Her eyes closed, she raised one fist in the air above her and stated with hyperbolic conviction, “No more marriages!”

“You just say that because you’re not in love,” Jo pointed out, looking down at the carpet.

Grace gave a noncommittal noise and dropped her hand. 

“Okay, kiddo, let’s let the party animal get some sleep,” Dr. Poulsen said, inclining his head back out into the hallway. 

Jo pushed off from the dresser and moved to swing Grace’s feet up on to the bed, but was met with a sleepy, protesting, “I got it, I got it…” as she crawled under the blankets without assistance. 

As she backed away, Jo picked up the hat and moved it to the small bedside table. 

“Since when did you become so superstitious?” Grace mumbled.

Jo retreated toward the bedroom door and hit the light switch on the wall. “You’re in  _ my  _ house. If you want to tempt fate in  _ your _ quarters, go right ahead.” Before heading to her own bedroom, she shot one last, accusatory glare at the hat on the nightstand. 

In sharp contrast to Leith’s old room, Jo’s was in a constant, comfortable state of disarray. Books spilled off of the shelves, more than one old hardcover hiding species of plants and flowers pressed between its pages, and her closet was an avalanche of practical, well-worn fabric just waiting to happen. Grace had always given Jo a hard time about her messy habits and lack of organization, but Jo knew  _ exactly _ where everything was. The letters she and Grace had passed back and forth as teenagers when she’d gone through a low-tech, Device-free phase; the cheap trophy they’d won at The Nunnery one trivia night; the expensive jacket Grace had let her borrow and then gifted to her after declaring Jo looked “much hotter in it than I do.”

She’d been in love with Grace for as long as she could remember, and she didn’t need a hat sitting on a bed--or advice from her brother--to remind her that the direction in which her heart had decided to fling itself was a truly doomed one.

...:::...

TBC.


	5. Act 1, Scene 5

Dr. Poulsen stifled a yawn on his way back out to the kitchen. 

“Less than twenty-four hours, hmm?” he asked.

Leith had downed his first cup of coffee quickly, and was pouring himself a second. “I wanted to show my support for Joanna, but this is an extremely busy month in my habitat, and I couldn’t spare the days.” He replaced the coffee pot and reached for the small sugar container on the countertop. “I went in early yesterday, completed my full hours, and left in time to catch the last transport here.” Leith bent to find the milk in the refrigerator. “I estimate the first transport this morning will get me back in the office by noon, and if I stay late--”

“Are you happy?” Dr. Poulsen interrupted, his tone light. “I know you’re working hard, but most people strive for a balance between work and rest. You’ve got your sights set on becoming Chancellor--I understand that--but if you burn out before you can run for office, all of this hard work will be for nought. I worry that work is your whole life.” 

Leith didn’t look up from his task. “I make these sacrifices willingly. I know what I want, and I know what kind of work ethic and time commitment are necessary to achieve my goal. I don’t have  _ hobbies _ , Dad; I never have.” Replacing the milk, he finally looked up at his father. “I enjoy my  _ work _ . I take pride in getting closer to my objective each year. So yes, to answer your question: I’m happy.” 

“It wouldn’t  _ hurt _ to diversify your interests a bit, you know.”

Leith sipped his coffee. Catching his father’s eye, he raised his eyebrows and motioned to his cup, silently offering some to the other man, who shook his head, declining the gesture. Leith pursed his lips, considering Dr. Poulsen’s suggestion before replying carefully, “I value my current job, I value my potential future jobs, and I value my family. At this time in my life, that’s all I feel I need.” 

Incredibly intelligent and driven, Leith had been working toward greatness ever since he learned the concept of power. He had run for the highest positions in student government in school, he’d pushed himself to earn only the best grades, and had never needed counseling as far as following rules or behaving appropriately. Leith had learned early on that the framework of society was the scaffolding on which he needed to build his life, and those rules, once accepted, could either work _ for _ him or _ against _ him. 

Most of Dr. Poulsen’s friends and colleagues had envied the straight-laced nature of his eldest child, assuming a boy who would never consider breaking a rule would be an easy child to raise. On the contrary, Leith had been extremely difficult. The lessons Dr. Poulsen had to teach his son over the years were much more complex than spelling or arithmetic. Leith saw things in black and white, and usually had things planned five steps in advance, which spoiled some of the adventurous escapades of his friends as they grew up. Especially Grace, who would occasionally jump into barely-organized plans with gusto, only to have them doused in practicality by Leith before she could even get out of the gate. Dr. Poulsen always tried to explain to Leith that failure was a natural process of most people’s lives, and was a legitimate learning process; he should let the other children experience negative outcomes for themselves. 

Empathy, patience, and tolerance had been difficult concepts for Leith to understand, and there were times that Dr. Poulsen doubted he’d actually been successful in teaching them to his son. Leith was the type of person who might objectively comprehend an idea while still disagreeing with it, and without the respect needed to implement it, would refuse to practice it himself. 

Dr. Poulsen nodded, heading into the main living space. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to discuss before you leave again? Have you arranged for a ride to the transport hub?”

“No. Thank you for reminding me; I should do that now,” Leith said, pulling out his Device. 

“Did you have a chance to talk to your sister at all tonight? I’m sure she was pleased to see you, but I know the Nunnery is usually quite loud. Not always the most conducive atmosphere for catching up.”

Leith raised an eyebrow as he ordered an esdy. “We talked briefly. Grace and her grand celebration monopolized the majority of the evening,” he said, his tone hardening at the mention of Grace.

“Ah yes. Grace. She seemed to be a bit off-kilter tonight. Did you two get into it, as usual?”

“I said nothing that wasn’t true. And I believe she owes me an apology.”

There was a long pause as Dr. Poulsen weighed the benefits of continuing the current topic of conversation. “Do you know where the word ‘apology’ derives from?” he finally asked, sitting down in one of the comfortable chairs in the living room. It didn’t face his son, and Dr. Poulsen had to turn his head to the side to see Leith in the kitchen. 

Leith didn’t respond, so his father continued without prompting. “From the Greek; ‘ _ apologia _ ’ actually means a speech made in defense of something. It’s an attempt to explain the motivation behind one’s actions. Plato’s  _ The Apology _ was written about the appeal Socrates made in his own defense at trial when he was brought up on charges of corrupting the youth of Athens.”

Leith finished doctoring his cup of coffee and moved to sit at the kitchen table with it. “Mmm. I’ve read it.” 

Dr. Poulsen shifted in his armchair, sitting up slightly straighter with a measure of surprise. “You have?”

“I took several philosophy and historical political science courses in school. It came up.” Leith sipped gingerly at his hot drink, not looking up at his father. 

“Of course you did.” Nodding, Dr. Poulsen settled back down into his seat. “Well, my point is only that an apology from Grace--in the truest, classical sense of the word--wouldn’t be an admission of guilt or remorse on her part, it would be a categorical defense of her actions. Which, I’m sure, she feels were quite justifiable, and she would be happy to defend.” The older man leaned forward with a sigh, his elbows braced on his knees in front of him. “You want her to say she regrets arguing with you and doubting your wisdom, such as it is; you don’t want an official explanation for why she behaved the way she did tonight. You don’t even  _ need _ that explanation, because you’re a brilliant man, and I’d bet this house that you could play Devil’s Advocate with yourself and argue her position, if required. Grace is smart, and her opinions--while not always in line with yours--are rational and intelligent.” Dr. Poulsen gave a low groan as he pushed himself up from his chair and tightened the belt of his robe, preparing to head back to bed. “You don’t need an apology from Grace,” he said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You already know why she said the things she did.” 

Leith swallowed his reply, and instead gave a cursory nod.

“Will you get some sleep? An hour on the couch before you leave?” Dr. Poulsen asked. 

“I’ll sleep on the transport back to the Bolivia Habitat. I’ll be fine,” Leith responded, lifting his chin. 

Dr. Poulsen gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze and headed toward the back of the house, his voice fading as it moved away down the hall. “Very well. I’m going to get another hour of sleep, if you don’t mind. Wake me before you leave; I want to say goodbye.”

...:::...

TBC.


	6. Act 1, Scene 6

Leith rinsed out his coffee cup and placed it in the cleaner, laced his shoes, and had his bag waiting in the front entryway before he knocked softly on his father’s door. 

He waited patiently, listening to the muffled rustling of bed covers and footsteps approaching on carpet. 

Dr. Poulsen opened the door, squinting in the light of the hallway. 

“My car should be here any minute,” Leith said.

Dr. Poulsen yawned and nodded, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder and steering them both toward the front door. “Make sure you get some sleep on the transport,” he said. “Your boss will think he’s boring you if you yawn at him all day.”

“I’ll get a few hours, Dad, don’t worry.”

“I’m your father; it’s my job to worry. How are you doing on money?”

Leith sighed as he picked up his bag. “I make more than I spend and I don’t have debts. Dad--” Leith pointed down the hall to the bedrooms. “--save your advice for Joanna. She needs it; I don’t.”

Dr. Poulsen smiled patiently. “That--right there--is how I know you still need my guidance. You’ll never be done learning; you’ll never know  _ everything _ . The fact that you think well-meaning advice--from someone older and more experienced, I might add--is unnecessary just proves that it’s  _ not _ . You don’t have to be talkative, but  _ never _ stop listening. Especially as a future Chancellor: you’ll be a great one if you listen-- _ really _ listen--to the citizens in your habitat.”

Leith inclined his head toward his father, accepting the counsel. 

“When will we see you again?” Dr. Poulsen asked. 

“Not until after the election--” Leith looked down as his Device beeped at him, signalling the arrival of his SDC. 

Before his son could reach for the front door, Dr. Poulsen stepped forward and enveloped him in a firm hug, clapping a hand across his back. “Thank you for making this trip. I know it meant the world to Jo, and you know I’m always happy to see my son.”

Leith juggled his bag in one hand while shoving his Device into a pocket with the other in order to automatically wind one arm around his father. “I wouldn’t have missed it. She’s family,” Leith said as if the explanation was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Stepping back, Leith reached for the door, and Dr. Poulsen held it open for his son as he headed down the short front walk to the empty car idling at the curb in the dim morning light. Leith raised a hand in a stoic imitation of a wave, which his father returned as the car pulled away.

Dr. Poulsen watched the tail lights until they turned out of sight around the corner at the end of the street before shutting the door. He headed back toward his room, grateful he was not on call today, and gave a low groan as he shed his robe, removed his glasses, and climbed stiffly back into bed.

His head had barely hit the pillow when his Device rang loudly on his bedside table. With a grunt, he rolled over, feeling his way toward the sound around a cup of water and his glasses. The small, bright screen announced he had an incoming hologram from the Den police chief. Unwilling to get dressed or even turn on a light to accept a two-way hologram at such a cruel hour, he tapped the one-way hologram button and squinted at the blue form of Chief Forkin that suddenly stood at his bedside. 

“Dr. Anthony Poulsen?” Chief Forkin asked, attempting to confirm the identity of the person who accepted the call, since she’d been denied a visual. “Vera Forkin. I apologize about the early call, but it’s imperative I track down Grace Hammond. She’s not answering her Device, but her ID chip shows she’s in your family quarters.”

“Yes, yes, she is. May I ask what this is about?” Dr. Poulsen asked, pulling on his robe again and fumbling for his glasses. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but if you could put me in touch with Ms. Hammond, I’d prefer to talk directly to her.”

“Of course. Give me just a moment.” 

When Dr. Poulsen arrived at his son’s bedroom door, he knocked lightly, then slightly louder, and finally called through the door, “Grace? Grace, I’m going to come in. There’s an important hologram I think you need to take.” Swinging the door open, he switched on a soft lamp on the dresser. 

Grace whined into her pillow. “What time is it?”

“Grace, you weren’t answering your Device, so Chief Forkin called me. Sit up, sweetheart, she needs to talk to you.” Dr. Poulsen held his Device out for Grace to take. 

Grace rubbed a hand over her face, crinkling her nose. “Mmm. Okay.” She pushed herself up in bed, took the Device, and mumbled, “What is it?” at the hologram beside her.

“Grace Hammond?” the chief verified.

“Yes,” Grace answered testily. “What do you need?”

“I’m sorry to inform you, ma’am, but your father--the Chancellor--has been arrested.”

...:::...

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the act! Ready to meet the "bad guys"? ;)


	7. Act 2, Scene 1

...:::...

_Maraam Kilroy was born more than fifty years ago into one of the unremarkable families at the Humanity level. Growing up, she always had access to good food, always had appropriate clothing, always had the books and school supplies she needed to succeed in her classes. Her family lived in one of the usual houses, and her parents worked regular hours._

_It was a pitiful existence._

_She hated every unremarkable day that went by._

_By the time she’d progressed to middle school, she knew--beyond a shadow of a doubt--that she was_ more. _More than her classmates. More than the majority of the people in her habitat. More than her small corner of society allowed her to be. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt somehow_ bigger _than what she was, sitting in class, answering questions correctly and achieving perfect scores on her exams._

 _When she began to study the pre-hab world more comprehensively, she couldn’t help but feel a coarse flare of envy as she read about kings, commanders, and celebrities. The whole world had looked at them--more than that--people had_ seen _them. And those people had opinions. Whether those were good or bad almost didn’t matter: public figures had influence. When they spoke, people paid attention. People repeated their thoughts. Imitated their clothes. Changed their hair to look like them. Hung their portraits in grand halls and celebrated their very existence._

 _There was a decided lack of fame in the present world, and it wasn’t fair. Not when she had so much to offer. Not when she had so much to give. Sure, she’d graduate at the top of her class, she’d test into a university, and she’d get a good job. But she probably wouldn’t end up making too_ _much more than Humanity pay, since salaries had been regulated by the Wealth Distribution Equality Act. She agreed that the mechanics who serviced the SDCs and put in a full week’s work deserved as much respect as teachers, lawyers, and shoe makers, but what about the truly exceptional people? Didn’t they deserve a little bit_ more _recognition?_

 _When everyone was equal… no one was special. And Maraam Kilroy had a deep and unabiding belief that_ she was special.

 _By the time she was in high school she’d decided that a career in politics was the best way to get the largest amount of recognition within a Habitat. Politicians still had influence; people knew their names. The salary was above Humanity Level. There was no better option for her: it wasn’t like she could burn the establishment to the ground and start over again, remaking it into a society that allowed fame--_ true _fame, in the historical sense. She was smart enough to understand that the pre-Hab wars had been horrible, with death and poverty, disease and hunger. The brutality wasn’t worth it. Current society, for all it lacked, was as close to utopia as the Earth was ever going to see. The Habitat structure was indeed Best Case Scenario._

_And she could work with that._

_Maraam Kilroy had known Alan Poulsen since she was a child. His family home was a few streets away from hers, and they started dating after she finished high school and began working on her university degree. Alan was several years older and already working on his post-graduate medical training, so their relationship had started in a somewhat unorthodox fashion: they began dating while he was still in residency in the Medical Habitat. Maraam had always been drawn to Alan’s intelligence, and she admired the fact that he was working on one of the more prestigious medical degrees available. After two and a half years of holograms, letters, and main screen calls, he completed his required rotations in the Med Habitat, and returned to the Den to finish his studies._

_For the entire time they lived apart, Maraam was always careful to carve her conversations with him into shapes that approximated what she believed would be… palatable. Having learned that her peers and teachers often found her more honest opinions somewhat intense, she vowed not to scare Alan off once she finally got him to notice her. The price, she supposed, of having her drive to succeed, was being perpetually misunderstood. Alan was a good man, and incredibly intelligent, so Maraam assumed at some point in the future--when the right time presented itself--she could gradually begin to open up to him, and he’d appreciate her outlook on life. She didn’t view it as deception; it was closer to a gentle acclimatization. Schools didn’t start children out with higher mathematics and theorems, they began with simple addition and subtraction, and worked up from there as they were ready._

_After Alan’s return to the Den, the pair muddled their way through a brief, awkward period of time as they tried to get to know one another in person, which was surprisingly different from their easy, practiced long-distance relationship of the previous years. Eventually they settled into a rhythm. One of their most frequent evening activities was booking a private room in the Den’s library and holing themselves up to study. Since most children lived in their family’s residence until they were married or finished with their schooling, it was often difficult to find private, quiet places to spend time together. Most couples headed for one of the bars like the Nunnery, or the large park, with its gazebos, benches, and secluded, winding paths. The more studious crowd preferred the small, sound-proof walls of the private library rooms._

_The couple’s favorite was a smaller room on the fourth floor with two large, soft chairs, and dual education screens: a huge version of a Device, linked on a much faster connection to the entire Knowledge System on file with the Habitats._

_Their relationship proceeded peacefully; sedate and non-confrontational. Both were still largely focused on their studies, and respected the other’s desire to succeed in their chosen field. Maraam appreciated the fact that Alan was almost as busy as she was, and didn’t try to drag her out to parties, or ever question her priorities. He was kind, and patient, and while he was generous with kisses and small, loving touches, he was adept at realizing when her attention was fully occupied on a topic other than him, and he would give her the space she needed._

_During his first six months back from the Med, Maraam became increasingly confident that Alan would understand if she opened up to him._

_The night she attempted the discussion did not end satisfactorily._

_Alan shifted in his chair, rolling his head from side to side to stretch his neck._

_“You about ready to call it quits?” Maraam asked, glancing over the top of her screen at him._

_“Almost. I have one more article I want to read, and then I can take a bit of a break before I review some pediatrics,” he answered._

_Maraam curled one leg underneath herself and leaned heavily against the armrest of her chair. “I could never be a pediatrician,” she said. “I couldn’t work with kids all day, every day.”_

_“It’s not that crazy of a concept,” Alan replied good-naturedly. “I mean, once you have kids? That’s your life: working with_ your own kids _everyday.”_

 _“Well, yeah,_ if _you want children,” Maraam pointed out as her fingers danced over the screen in front of her, logging into her assignment section to check on an upcoming topic._

 _“...the way you said that made it sound like you_ don’t,” _Alan chuckled, bringing up his final article. He began swiping through the pages on the large education screen in front of him._

_“Mmm, no,” Maraam murmured, shaking her head but not looking up._

_“No? Is that...just right now? Or never? You_ never _want children?” Alan asked, his hand frozen mid-swipe. He had paused, somewhat surprised. His tone wasn’t angry, and it took Maraam a moment longer than it should have to realize he was waiting for her to expound on her statement._

_“Well, no…” she said evenly. “I never really saw myself as a mother, and I feel like I have too many other things to do in life. Frankly, I think it would be irresponsible of me to have kids if I wasn’t actually interested in raising them. If my career is always going to come first, any children I have will consistently be placed on a back burner, and I don’t think that would be fair to them. Or to me.” Maraam briefly considered trying to change the subject versus letting the topic continue._

_“Do you plan to get married?” Alan’s voice was still even, without accusation or malice._

_“Are you asking?” Maraam replied with a slight smile. She knew he wasn’t._

_“You don’t think you could find room in your life for both? Children_ and _a career?” he continued, ignoring her question. “You don’t want to create something beyond yourself?”_

_She hated that question, but her well-crafted mask of polite civility was firmly in place. If she was going to be vocally truthful with Alan there was no sense in doubling down on her gamble by sneering at him. “Of course I do. I want to leave my mark. I want to have an incredible career that affects and benefits everyone in the Den. Hell, everyone on Earth . And as far as ‘wanting to create something’ goes, it’s not like I lack creative outlets or hobbies…”_

_A good portion of Maraam’s life had been spent explaining to people where she found the time to regularly exercise, become an accomplished painter, master gourmet cooking methods, play tennis so well that she now lacked challenging partners in the Den, and learn some extremely advanced coding techniques that even those majoring in Information Technology and Programming struggled with. Her answers never seemed to satisfy people, and she realized most people found her explanations rude if she responded honestly._

_“But how can you be confident that your career and other accomplishments will sustain you your entire life? You don’t think you’ll want for something… more?”_

_Maraam sighed. “That’s just it,” she said, leaning forward and pushing her education screen to the side. “I_ am _more. I don’t need to have kids--I’m not more because I can_ make a person, _I’m more because_ I am a person. _Don’t you ever feel…?” Maraam stopped and took a deep breath before continuing on, fervent and hushed, as if she could get in trouble by being overheard. Her internal moderator warned her to curb the conversation and not broaden the topic._ Wrap up the procreation part of this discussion and then change the subject- _-_ _“Don’t you ever feel like you’re bigger than the Den? Than any of the habitats? Worth more than this current system allows us to be as individuals?”_

_“Sure, but that’s what drives us all toward innovation. Progress.” Alan shrugged. “But you’ll drive yourself mad if you strive for something that’s outside the limitations of reality. I’d love to be able to fly, but human beings just aren’t capable of that.”_

_“Tell that to the Wright brothers,” Maraam said with conviction._

_A hint of a smile graced Alan’s face briefly. “I meant without the assistance of a plane.”_

_Maraam stood, suddenly feeling stifled in the small, windowless room. “I’m serious, Alan.” She gestured at her education screen, which was filled with articles detailing the lives and accomplishments of past world leaders. “I read about these men and women in the past who were able to become more, become symbols, become something larger than themselves, and I envy_ _that.”_

_“Unchecked, some of them became tyrants. Or murderers,” Alan cautioned._

_“But they were_ known. _They were important. I’m not saying my goal is to become a dictator or a monarch, but I can definitely see the draw to notoriety if a more benevolent option for celebrity is unattainable. People remember their names. People write books and articles about them,” Maraam said, pointing at her screen again as proof. “How many of our contemporaries do you think stand out enough to be remembered? If I exist my whole life as a functional, appropriate, satisfied member of society, who will remember my name when I’m gone?”_

_“Some people think that’s a very good argument for having children,” Alan contended._

_Maraam scratched her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want one or two generations of my offspring to tell fond stories about me, Alan. I want_ everyone _to know my name. I want my name to go down in history. I want a legacy. I want to leave a lasting impression on society.”_

_Alan frowned as the direction of the conversation began to concern him. “This is exactly the kind of rhetoric those pre-Hab politicians and dictators you’re talking about spouted during their time,” he warned._

_Maraam clicked her fingernails against each other in controlled frustration. “I’m not saying I think we should return to the horrors of the wars the Earth witnessed for thousands of years before we finally agreed on the society structure we have now, but…” Maraam was surprised and somewhat horrified by the fact that she had admitted so much all at once, but the more she spoke, the more intensely she felt the desire to confess her opinions and ambition to Alan and have them be understood and respected. She’d never hungered for someone’s acceptance so fiercely and suddenly in her entire existence. “When everyone is treated the same, and valued the same, no one is revered. So what happens to those individuals who_ deserve _that? Deserve celebrity and fame? Adoration?”_

_Maraam’s stomach sank as she watched something between pity and disrespect color her companion’s expression._

_“And you think that’s you? You deserve that kind of unbounded, distorted adoration?”_

_The harsh sound of her huffed exhalation bounced around the room. “Not distorted. And not yet. But that’s just because I haven’t done what I-- I will. I_ will _deserve it. I know I’m capable of things that will deserve respect and--”_

_“You already have respect,” Alan pointed out calmly, though the small furrow was still noticeable between his brows. “Your peers respect you, your instructors respect you, I respect you--”_

_“That’s not enough,” Maraam whispered honestly, wincing at the sound of the words._

_Alan swallowed and finally pushed his own education screen to the side. “Maraam, I’m not telling you to settle. But I don’t know where this is coming from, and you look fairly upset right now. You’ll never be happy with your life if the goals you set for yourself are unrealistic. I won’t ever tell you not to follow your dreams, but--”_

_“I hate that expression,” Maraam bit out. “If you just_ follow _your dreams, you’re moving too slowly. You should chase them down. Tackle them. Otherwise, at the end of your life you’ll realize you’ve been walking three steps behind your dreams, dutifully_ following _them for years, staring at their back while they walk away from you.”_

_As she spoke, Maraam had walked toward Alan, and now stood, her small frame towering over his seated form. She recognized the aggression in her stance and immediately relaxed her shoulders, moving back several paces as she tried to school her expression into one of moderation._

_“I want to work in the Med Habitat for a few years, and then I want to get married, have kids, and take a job in the Den as a Habitat Physician,” Alan admitted in a level voice. “I don’t need fame. I don’t need adoration.”_

_Caught off guard by the abrupt change in topic from_ her plans _to_ his, _Maraam stuttered slightly. “But--you’re… You’re top of your class. You’re about to graduate with your pick of positions in the Med, with research grants, and the ability to make your mark--”_

 _“I don’t need that,” Alan interrupted, shaking his head. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Do_ you _need me to need that?”_

_“Why would you want to settle for--?”_

_“It’s not settling , Maraam, it’s choosing a family and a different lifestyle than you obviously have in mind for yourself.”_

_The pair stared at each other for a long moment before Maraam spoke. “I don’t want what you want.”_

_Alan nodded slowly. “You don’t want me,” he agreed._

_With a flinch, Maraam stepped forward again as Alan reached for his bag and shut down his screen. “It’s not that I don’t want--”_

_“I didn’t mean that reproachfully,” Alan assured her, standing, his shoulders squared and his chin lifted despite the sadness in his eyes._

_“Is this it?” Maraam whispered. “Is this it for us? This feels…” Hollow. Anticlimactic. “Shouldn’t a relationship that lasted almost three years end with something… more?” She dropped her eyes to the floor, realizing she didn’t feel anywhere near as undone as Alan looked. “Shouldn’t there be… I don’t know… crying?” Maraam spread her arms wide as if baring herself in the face of violence and shrugged her shoulders. “Bloodshed?”_

_Alan shook his head and licked his lips. “We were never that couple, Maraam. What’s the sense in lashing out if we both know it’s over?” His voice was smooth, softening the edges of the situation with their lack of animosity. “I do wish you’d talked to me about how you felt before now, though. I feel as if… as if I never really knew you. And spending this much time with someone you don’t actually know… that’s a real shame.”_

_Alan walked to the door, and closed it softly behind him._

_Two years later, he met and married his wife._

_Maraam’s ambition continued to drive her, but she never spoke honestly about it again. Within ten years she had ascended to a top position within the Den’s governing system, and had become good friends with Ansel Claude, an enthusiastic civil servant with average intelligence and even less backbone. He was a bland, useful sort of man, and with a small amount of grooming, the two rose through the ranks together._

_Eventually, while in her sixth year as Secretary of Technology for the Den, she approached Claude about running for office._

_“But I’m content as Director of Agriculture,” he’d argued. “I don’t need to be Chancellor._ You’re _much better suited for that than I am.”_

_Kilroy explained she had her sights set on the position of Justice in the Den instead. She glossed over her reasoning for the choice; Claude didn’t need to know that she craved the ability to create new laws and change standards in the habitat, rather than just enforcing them as the Chancellor. And with Claude in one of the other two most influential offices in the Den, she would essentially control two of the three votes needed for most governmental innovation or adjustment._

_She hadn’t been able to convince him to run for Chancellor, but eventually he agreed to throw his hat into the ring for the Vice Chancellor position. It was just as well when the other candidates were announced: Lyall Hammond and Vera Forkin had both put their names on the ballot as potential Chancellors, and Kilroy knew her prosaic associate would never win against either of them._

_The pair campaigned with gusto--her for Justice, and him for Vice Chancellor--and for several weeks Kilroy maintained a steadfast optimism about their chances of winning. However, in the days leading up to the election, it became obvious that her seat at the Justice bench was not guaranteed, and Claude’s mundane personality was forgettable at best. Their numbers weren’t what they needed to be in order to win._

_Not that she was supposed to be privy to that information._

_Maraam Kilroy had never been the kind of person to leave things up to chance, so before she’d submitted her name to the election committee, she’d quietly installed a program into the Den’s information system. She’d always been technologically gifted, and despite multiple layers of protection in the Den’s mainframe--many of which she’d had a hand in upgrading herself--she was able to insert a few lines of code in the right places so she could track polling data and results. The day she realized the totals_ just weren’t there, _she’d stayed up all night, sacrificing sleep in order to finish writing and uploading a partner program that did more than just monitor the election numbers._

 _Time constraints and the requirement that her work remain well hidden within the code forced her to reverse not only the results in her race, but the results for_ all three _of the main positions._

_Later that week, Maraam Kilroy, Ansel Claude, and Lyall Hammond were confirmed the winners of their respective races, and all three were sworn in the following month._

...:::...

Kilroy’s Device buzzed softly beside her, and she glanced at the ID. Clearing her throat, she accepted the call. An alert, fully-dressed hologram of Claude appeared next to her. He’d obviously not been able to sleep, either. 

“Is it done?” Kilroy asked simply. 

Claude nodded. “Hammond’s been arrested.”

"Good," Kilroy said, standing and smoothing the fabric of the front of her pants. "Is the Chancellor's office set up for the call?"

"Almost," Claude answered. 

"Fine. Keep working on it. I'll be there in five."

...:::...

TBC.


	8. Act 2, Scene 2

...:::...

“What do you mean my father’s been arrested?” Grace kicked awkwardly at the covers still draped around her legs, the soft fabric catching and clinging to the jeans she’d fallen asleep still wearing. She squinted at the blue hologram in front of her, trying to ignore the pounding in her head. “He’s the _Chancellor_.” Her tone left no doubt that she wasn’t pleased about being woken up with this nonsense after so few hours of sleep.

“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Hammond,” Chief Forkin confirmed. She was an imposing woman with a stocky build and a square jaw, but her expression was kind, despite her formal stance. “Vice Chancellor Claude has come in early due to the situation, and he’d like to call you on a formal main screen, if you’re available. He asked to be the one to explain this to you.”

Grace shook her head, wrinkling her nose in indignation. “No, there’s been some mistake. My father’s all about rules. He’s not a criminal. He’s never broken the law--he _loves_ the law. That’s why _he’s the Chancellor_ ,” she repeated, drawing out her last words slowly, as if the Chief of Police was having difficulty understanding her.

“There’s been no mistake, ma’am,” Forkin insisted. “If Dr. Poulsen wouldn’t mind the call being placed to his main screen, the Vice Chancellor can contact you right now to discuss this. He can answer any questions you have.”

“That would be fine, Chief Forkin, thank you,” Dr. Poulsen interrupted. “Please tell the Vice Chancellor he can place the call as soon as he’d like.”

Chief Forkin inclined her head slightly and reached forward to end the hologram. Her blue form disappeared immediately.

Grace still wore a look of irritation and confusion as Dr. Poulsen retrieved his Device from her and placed a hand on her shoulder, silently urging her to stand. She did, scoffing.

“This is ridiculous. This is complete nonsense. My dad would never consider doing anything more unacceptable than jaywalking. He’s awkward, and boring, and stuffy, yeah, but a criminal? I don’t think so--”

As the pair entered the living room, the large flat screen in front of the couch lit up with an incoming video. Grace sagged down into the cushions as Dr. Poulsen accepted the call.

An image of Ansel Claude, in a pressed suit, seated at the Chancellor’s desk, filled the screen.

“Good morning, Grace. I’m sorry to call so early.” Claude’s mouth twitched slightly in a clumsy attempt at a smile. “I, uh… It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you.”

Grace sighed. She’d never had a problem with the Vice Chancellor; he’d always been kind to her, if somewhat socially stilted. “Vice Chancellor,” she said, by way of returning the greeting. “I don’t understand what’s going on. The Chief of Police just tracked me down at dawn to tell me my dad’s been arrested. Which isn’t possible. So…?” Grace raised her eyebrows and spread her hands out in front of herself, inviting the man on the screen to clarify the situation for her.

“It’s come to light--that is… Evidence has been found…” The Vice Chancellor swallowed, an uncomfortable look on his face. “My dear, it seems your father is guilty of election tampering.”

Grace dismissed the information immediately, shaking her head and leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Pff! That’s preposterous.”

Dr. Poulsen stepped forward, adjusting his robe slightly. He was cognizant of the fact that he was the only one present who wasn’t appropriately dressed, considering the gravity of the conversation. “Vice Chancellor, good morning. Could you please elaborate? Are you suggesting Lyall’s victory in the last election four years ago wasn’t accurate?”

“Yes, unfortunately. It appears that he tampered with the votes--that is to say, the results…” The Vice Chancellor’s eyes shifted to one side briefly as if searching for reassurance from something behind the camera before returning to the screen in front of him. “He did not receive the majority of votes. If processed correctly, the election results would have named Vera Forkin the next Chancellor."

The dismissive expression on Grace’s face slowly slid away. She stared at the bright screen in front of her; at another man sitting in her father’s office, in his chair. The official logo of the Denmark Habitat was emblazoned on the wall behind him.

For the past four and a half years, she’d only seen her father in that position. It was a common sight: this was the official video angle, filter, and desk dressing Chancellor Hammond used when addressing the entire Habitat. His speeches and updates were available on all video screens and Devices, and now there was another person sitting in his chair.

Grace’s eyes flicked down to where her father’s name plate usually sat.

 _Ansel Claude_ in a modern, metallic font stared back at her.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Grace said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

“Hey--what’s going on--?” A yawning Jo rounded the corner from the hallway, having been woken by the volume of the official call.

Her father held up a silencing finger in her direction before turning back to the screen. “Vice Chancellor Claude, do you have--”

“Chancellor Claude,” he corrected, looking slightly green.

Grace’s jaw clenched.

“Chancellor Claude,” Dr. Poulsen began again slowly, frowning. “You have proof of this? These aren’t just accusations?”

Claude nodded. “We didn’t want to move on anything until we… That is to say, Chief Forkin, Justice Kilroy, and I conducted a small, quiet inquiry with a minimal number of investigators. With the next election coming up in just six months… Well, we--I wanted to make sure this year’s results are above reproach. People need to have faith in the system, and even if it means exposing previous flaws, well… then so be it."

“What happens now?” Grace asked, her voice tight.

“Well, your father is being held at the precinct until a hearing can be arranged. Because of the magnitude of the charges and the amount of work already done by the police and investigation committee, we’ll be able to schedule the trial this week. He’s refusing counsel and insisting on representing himself, since he has a law degree, but he’s also not denying the charges at this time.” Chancellor Claude shifted in his chair. “This will probably be over quite quickly.”

“Over?” Grace repeated, her eyebrows knitting together.

“As in…” Claude paused, pursed his lips, and looked down at his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. “He’ll likely be found guilty this week, and moved to the Penitentiary Habitat. These kind of crimes carry very heavy sentences, Grace, and he’s not a young man. He may… he may be there for the rest of his life.”

“I don’t understand…” Jo said softly, still hovering several feet behind Grace and her father.

Dr. Poulsen crossed his arms over his chest. “Can Grace see him? Can she go to the precinct?”

“I don’t want to see him,” Grace said hollowly.

“Now, Grace, that’s not--”

“I don’t want to see him,” she repeated, standing. Without acknowledging the man on the video screen in front of her, she moved out of the living room and back toward the bedrooms.

Dr. Poulsen moved toward the controls. “I’m sorry, Chancellor, we appreciate the personal call. Is there anything else that Grace needs to do? Legally? Today?”

“No, nothing today. Later this week, if her father is found guilty, there will be some financial papers to sign… his estate… but that can all wait.”

“Understood. Thank you.” Dr. Poulsen ended the call and hurried after Grace, Jo close on his heels, her face crossed with confusion.

Before they arrived at the door to Leith’s bedroom, Grace came striding back out of it, her jacket and Device in one hand, her hat in the other. Without looking at either of the Poulsens, she pushed her shoulder into the wall and walked around them, biting down on her Device with her teeth to free up her hands in order to don her jacket. Her hat was shoved onto her head just as she reached their front door.

“Grace, honey, you don’t have to leave--” Dr. Poulsen called down the hall.

“I need to go home,” was all the explanation Grace offered, her eyes on the ground, as she swung the door closed behind her.

...:::...

TBC.


	9. Act 2, Scene 3

...:::...

In the Chancellor’s office, Claude pushed back from the desk, pressing his fingers to his temples.

Kilroy exhaled. “She seemed upset about her father.”

Claude looked up with a reproachful expression. “‘Seemed’, Maraam? We just took away the only family member that girl has. She doesn’t just _seem_ upset. She _is_ upset.”

Kilroy didn’t react to Claude’s admonishment, looking for all the world like a calculating owl considering its next move. “Hammond hasn’t been a present father since before he took office here, you know that. Her life won’t change much, other than the fact that she’s set to inherit a great deal of money in the next few days.”

“Please don’t try to ‘spin’ me,” Claude said, irritated, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t insinuate what we just did to that girl will actually make her life _better_ in some way.”

Kilroy squared her shoulders and pushed off of the low cabinet she’d been leaning against during the call. “Regardless, what’s done is done. This thing is moving now, whether we like it or not. And remember: it was _us_ or _him_ . If we hadn’t struck first he would have done this same thing to us, and _we’d_ both be heading to jail right now instead of switching his name plate for yours. You know that.”

Claude frowned and glanced down at the back of the inscribed block Kilroy had specifically grabbed from his office down the hall before he’d made the call. She’d moved quickly around his new, much larger room, clearing last-minute clutter, switching out a wilting office flower for a healthy plant with robust leaves, and spinning the official flag to a better angle on the tall pole behind the desk chair. The room was dressed in its best, and additional lighting had been brought in as if one of the more important ceremonial addresses was going to be made today. Claude thought they were all superficial adjustments, but Kilroy had insisted that the appearance of control, vitality, and strength was of utmost importance, especially during his first few statements and calls from his new desk.

“You’re right. Of course you’re right.” He nodded, attempting to sound convinced.

“What happened during the election four years ago can’t be undone; all we can do is be mindful of our own well-being from this point forward. Self-preservation: that’s what we’re aiming for here,” Kilroy said, her voice calm. “He was the one who threatened first. Remember that.”

Claude continued to bob his head in agreement. “So we stick together. And this all works out.”

“Exactly. Hammond was well aware of how he got to this office. He benefited just as much as we did. And just six months before the election, he decides to ransom our freedom to keep us from running again? Call it what you want--extortion, blackmail--he is _not_ an innocent man. And he knows it. We’re putting a guilty man behind bars."

Claude cringed, running his fingers along the edge of his new desk. “We’re just as guilty, Maraam.”

“No, we’re not,” she insisted, stepping closer. “We’re guilty of positioning ourselves into political offices where we could do the most good for the citizens of this Habitat. That’s all. Hammond was guilty of going along with it, and then trying to use it against us. What we’re doing in response to his actions is merely self-defense.” Kilroy softened her voice and sat down in one of the low chairs placed in front of the Chancellor’s desk. She wasn’t a physically imposing woman, and the way she crossed her legs and looked up at Claude made her appear even smaller. “You’re allowed to feel sorrow for his situation even while thinking of yourself. Those two emotions are not mutually exclusive.” Kilroy leaned forward, placing a light hand on the edge of the desk between them. “Remember why we’re doing it; remember the good we’ve done in office. We were the first habitat to implement the new medical upgrades to the ID chips,” Kilroy pointed out, holding up a finger to symbolize the action, before raising others to join it as she listed the triumphs from their past term. “We have two of the eleven Restoration Program patients living here, and we’re setting the standard for the potential quality of life someone in that situation can expect. Our roads are safest, our oxygenation system has been completely rebuilt, our citizens routinely grade the Denmark Habitat as the very highest in lifestyle and satisfaction--”

“We _have_ done a lot of good in the last four years,” Claude agreed, leaning back in the tall chair and tenting his fingers in front of himself. Kilroy watched as he seemed to come to terms with his position behind the Chancellor’s desk, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

She carefully denied the smile that threatened to tug at her face. He was in.  

“And we’re going to do even more during our next term once we get re-elected this fall,” she added.

Claude nodded. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“You’re going to make a spectacular Chancellor,” Kilroy finished, finally allowing a mild version of her smile soften her face. “Now. Let’s discuss the upcoming Transport Decommissioning, shall we?”

...:::...

TBC.


	10. Act 2, Scene 4

...:::...

Grace ignored the buzzing in her pocket as she hurried to the main road. She could have ordered an esdy to pick her up from the Poulsen’s, but that would have meant waiting for several minutes at their house until it arrived, and she was loathe to answer any questions they might have about her father. Or her opinion of him.

 _She_ didn’t have a clear idea of what she was feeling right now--how could she be expected to explain it to anyone else?

Taking long, fast steps, Grace made it to the street corner out of sight of the Poulsen’s front windows and cursed under her breath, realizing she should have ordered the car the second she walked out the door. The wait time for a pick up would be less than the half hour it would take to walk home, but Grace didn’t stop as she reached the wide pathway that ran along next to the main road. Instead, she picked up her pace until she’d broken into a halting jog.

Her father had always been distant--especially after her mother left--but he’d done the best he could with his daughter. Chancellor Hammond wasn’t the most affectionate of men, and while he was appropriate and expressive within the confines of his job and career, he was a quiet, reserved man in his private life. He always had the good of his fellow citizens at heart, and as far back as she could remember, he’d taught Grace that their family money didn’t make them superior to anyone else in the Den or any other Habitat. Public service was noble, and he took his duties as Chancellor very seriously. So seriously that he’d moved into the governing quarters downtown shortly after he’d been elected, and rarely spent much time in the Hammond family house. At first, it had irritated Grace: she hated being alone, and the solitude of living by herself in the comparatively large home had driven her stir crazy. She quickly found ways to combat the silence: she always had a waiting queue of lectures or movies to play on the main screen in the media room she spent most of her time in at the back of the house, or classic literature that could be played over the speakers built into the ceiling of the whole house.

Grace stumbled, tripping over her boots. Breathing heavily, she paused, kicking her feet up against a low stone wall that ran along the sidewalk so she could lace the shoes properly. She’d never been a particularly athletic or graceful person (Wren thought her name was wonderfully ironic), and she should have known not to attempt to jog in loose boots with a hangover in the first place. Once her shoes were secure, she started off again at a more modest pace.

Wren’s family lived right down the street, and on days that Grace’s loneliness got to be too much, she never hesitated to invite him over for a meal or philosophical discussion. If he was unavailable, Rose (and Gordon) or Jo were suitable distractions as well, though they’d both been less accessible recently because of the time they had to commit to their degrees.

Grace had never appreciated isolation, and she detested silence. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, irritated that she resented her current solitude and yet couldn’t think of a single person she wanted to be near at that exact moment. Her hand found her Device in the pocket of her jacket, but she left it concealed in the folds of fabric, running her fingers along the thin edge of it.

Her father had done his very best at raising her after becoming a single parent. Grace’s mother had left for another Habitat immediately after the divorce, and once Grace discovered that she’d remarried less than a month after that, she’d stopped looking for information. If her mother didn’t want to be a part of their family, it was better that she wasn’t. Simple as that. And if her father was unable to provide something, be it advice, company, or emotional support, Dr. Poulsen had always been there for her.

But despite his somewhat stoic approach to child-rearing, Grace’s father had been constant. Predictable. Grace always knew she could count on her father to be a staple in her life, like a somewhat flavorless noodle side dish that filled her up enough that she didn’t over-eat the too-spicy main course she loved to order, even when she knew it might not be the best idea.

How could he have done this?

Grace’s frown deepened. The burn of betrayal and her fast pace made her shrug back out of her jacket, despite the moderate temperature held in the Den.

Her father thought lying was cowardly. He relished the idea of a strong, structured society, and yet…

He wasn't denying the charges.

There had to be some mistake. He wouldn’t have done this.

Had he actually confessed? He wouldn’t lie.

...wasn’t dishonesty the very thing he’d confessed to?

Grace growled out a frustrated curse, her strides lengthening again.

By the time she got home she’d overheated, having pulled off her hat soon after taking off her jacket. Her hair felt greasy, and she wanted to burn the nice clothes she’d picked to go out in the night before. As soon as the door closed behind her, she dropped her things on the floor of the front entryway and attempted to kick out of her boots. Having tied them too tightly, they refused to budge, and Grace let out an irritated noise as she leaned over to tear at the laces.

Once free, she stalked along the extended hallway that ran to the bedrooms at the back of the Hammond family home and made a beeline for the shower, passing her bed while stripping off the unexpectedly offensive layers of her clothes. Her bathroom was dark slate; floor, ceiling, and walls. A wide shower head hung like a chandelier in the center of the room, and she punched at the controls with more force than was necessary.

She hoped that rinsing off the bar-smell from the night before (as well as the layer of sweat from her impromptu jog that morning) would calm the uneasy feeling she had in her stomach, but as the lather washed away, the discomfort did not.

She extended her shower twice, despite the beeped water conservation time limit warnings, returning both times to stand directly under the water, eyes closed, her hair plastered down her face.

Chancellor Claude’s words rung in her ears.

_These kind of crimes carry very heavy sentences, Grace… he may be there for the rest of his life._

…:::...

Wren woke up to the sounds of his parents making breakfast. He lay in his bed, head tucked firmly beneath his pillow, attempting to decide which he wanted more: to stay in the soft cocoon of sheets and try to go back to sleep, or to drag himself out of bed in search of the coffee he could smell brewing.

The coffee won.

Still in his pajamas and rubbing one eye tiredly with the heel of his palm, Wren trudged into the kitchen.

“Good morning!” his father greeted him. “Color me astonished: your mother and I just finished taking bets on how long it would take you to emerge today after Grace’s party last night.” Sipping a glass of juice, he added, “I just lost.”

Wren slumped into a chair at the table, reaching for a piece of toast. “It was Jo’s party, not Grace’s,” Wren corrected. “And did Mom start the coffee? Because that’s what brought me out here.”

Wren’s mother was already pouring him a cup, and she shot a smug smile at her husband as she set the drink on the table for her son.

“That’s cheating, Catherine.”

“You said I couldn’t tell him there was bacon,” she pointed out. “You never said anything about not making coffee—“

“—hey, hang on—what’s… what’s going on?” Wren interrupted suddenly, his voice serious. He wasn’t looking at his parents, and they fell silent as he stood and walked toward their main screen, mounted on the wall in the next room. It was on, but muted. Wren fumbled for the controller, raising the volume.

“…following the announcement earlier this morning, in which Police Chief Forkin disclosed several details from Hammond’s confession. This comes just six months before the next habitat election. Chancellor Claude and Justice Kilroy have both—“

“Chancellor Claude?” Wren’s father asked, coming to stand behind him.

“Shh!” Wren said, waving a hand in a frantic request for silence.

 _LYALL HAMMOND ARRESTED; ADMITS TO ELECTION FRAUD_ explained the crawl along the bottom of the screen.

“—with their reactions. Justice Kilroy called for a complete system upgrade to the Denmark Habitat security in her statement, harkening back to her days as Technology Secretary. Her proposal included broadening the scope of the CCTV program, using stronger encryption algorithms on the voting databases, and an overhaul of the current firewall system designed to prevent election tampering. Critics are skeptical of the government’s ability to manage such an ambitious project within the next six months, as many resources have already been devoted to the Transport Hub redesign, and the replacement of almost half of this habitat’s transport fleet—“

Wren was already launching himself in the direction of his room where he’d left his Device docked as his mother asked hesitantly, “Have you talked to Grace this morning--?”

After three unanswered hologram requests, Wren hit the button to redial on his Device again even as he strode back into the living room and commandeered the main screen. “She’s not answering,” he muttered as an explanation for navigating away from the news. He called her house twice, but each time it went to her smiling, pre-recorded message in which she apologized for not being available, and promised to get back to the caller as soon as she could.

“Wait, wait--” Wren mentally kicked himself--Grace was probably still at the Poulsen’s. Selecting their name from the list, he shifted from one foot to the other restlessly as he waited for someone to pick up.

Jo’s face filled the screen, her lip caught between her teeth and her brows knit together in concern. “Is Grace with you?” she asked immediately, not waiting for a greeting from Wren.

“No--she’s not with _you_?” Wren replied in confusion, his heart sinking. “I thought she stayed with you last night?”

“She did, but--have you seen the news? You know about her dad?” Jo asked quickly.

“Yeah, it’s all over the Updates--Jo, _what is going on?_ ” Wren asked, his stomach twisting helplessly.

“Chancellor Hammond’s been arrested for rigging the last election--Chief Forkin should have won. She called this morning and told Grace that Vice Chancell--” Jo broke off uncomfortably. “ _Chancellor_ Claude wanted to speak to her officially. Wren, he called her from _her dad’s office_ . From her dad’s _chair_ . The whole office looked like it had been staged for a Decade Proclamation or something, with the additional lighting and the flag and everything, with _Claude’s_ name plate sitting in the center of the desk.”

Wren breathed out and backed up to sit on the coffee table, not taking his eyes off the main screen in front of him.

“ _Yeah_ , right?” Jo said, taking Wren’s silence as agreement that the extravagant visual was a harsh way to introduce the news of their friend’s father’s arrest to her.

“So where is she now?” Wren asked.

“As soon as the Chancellor hung up, she just _left_ ,” Jo said. She nodded behind her and added, “My dad’s going to head over to her house in a few minutes, and I’m going to swing by a few places she might go--the library, the donut place--”

“The part of the park with all the statues,” Wren interrupted.

“Oh--yeah, of course. I’ll check there, too. Thanks.” Jo nodded earnestly. “I think you should stay put in case she drops by your place. Can you call Rose and Gordon? Make sure they know what’s going on and see if she’s called them?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that right now. You call me the minute you find her? If you need anything?”

“Yep. Same goes for you,” Jo said, her mouth pulled tight with worry as she ended the call.

Wren stood slowly, dragging a hand through his long hair. “I’m going to hologram Rose from my room and then keep trying Grace’s Device,” he said softly. “Come get me if someone calls on the main screen?”

“Of course. If there’s anything new we’ll let you know,” his mother assured him as his father switched the screen back to the Updates.

...:::...

TBC.


	11. Act 2, Scene 5

...:::...

Grace sat on the large sofa in the front room. She almost never spent time in the front part of the house. After having broken too many antiques and expensive pieces of art as a child, she’d been officially banned from playing in the formal dining and living rooms. While she was sure her father had mentally relaxed his stance on where his daughter could and could not go in her own home years ago, she’d gotten used to avoiding these rooms, and generally bypassed them in favor of the kitchen, media room, and the bedrooms in the back of the house.

The fabric of the sofa was heavy and expensive, and not nearly soft enough for her liking.

Turning her head, she looked at the matching armchairs across from her. A frown crossed her face as she tried to remember which one she’d stained with hot sauce when she’d poured some down the front of her bathing suit when she was eight. She, Leith, Wren, and Kira Yorick (a comedian of a girl from up the street) had been pretending to sword fight with long foam pool toys, and Grace, once she’d been “stabbed”, felt the need for additional authenticity. She’d delighted in the look of the fake blood, but had regretted the decision to use it when she accidentally smeared some on the chair cushion. Her father had grounded for the next two days.

She’d been smart enough to know two days for a stained couch cushion was probably getting off easy, considering she’d been in the front room to sneak a closer look at the antique swords, rapiers, and daggers that were housed in the low, glass display case that served as a table between the immense sofa and chairs. She wasn’t allowed to touch the weapons, and she was quite certain her grounding would have been closer to a week if she’d confessed to the real reason she’d been hunched over the chair.

A bell at the front door pulled Grace’s thoughts away from the weapons that populated the case in front of her. She glanced at the screen in the entryway and saw Dr. Poulsen standing on her stoop.

Grace briefly considered several options, including telling him to go away, or just pretending she wasn’t home. She dismissed the ideas quickly as she moved to let him in, admitting to herself that she was glad to see the doctor. Despite the speed with which she’d fled the Poulsen house earlier that morning, the last thing she wanted right now was to be alone.

Grace cracked the door and peered out with one eye, attempting humor. “Can I help you?” she asked suspiciously, pretending she didn’t recognize the man coming to call.

With a patient smile, Dr. Poulsen inclined his head at her in greeting. “Still under the influence of last night’s alcohol? Or have we already started again this morning?” he asked, quirking a teasing eyebrow.

Narrowing her eyes, Grace opened the door but didn’t move to allow Dr. Poulsen entrance. “You do look kind of familiar,” she said slowly. “You the guy who sells fish down at the market?”

“Not I,” Dr. Poulsen replied good-naturedly. “But I’ll take that as a compliment, since he’s ten years my junior, and has a great deal more hair than I have these days.”

“Mmm. It’s a pity you’re not him. That dude is a good guy. Diamond-in-the-rough type, you know?” Grace rambled, looking down at the ground as she leaned against the door.

Dr. Poulsen sighed. “Grace, honey…” His voice was low and gentle. “May I come in?” Without looking up, Grace nodded and stepped aside.

…:::...

“I just don’t understand how this could have happened,” Grace bemoaned for what seemed like the thousandth time since she’d sat down again in her living room. She’d made them both tea, but hadn’t touched hers. It sat on the glass surface in front of her, still giving off gentle tendrils of steam.

“That might be a very good question to ask your father,” Dr. Poulsen pointed out, seated across from Grace in one of the heavy armchairs, his half-finished cup of tea cradled in both hands. “He’s still here in the Den for another three days before he’s transferred to the Penitentiary Habitat. I think you should visit him before he leaves.”

“And say what?” Grace snapped, anger seeping into her tone momentarily. “I’m sorry--I’m sorry, Dr. P. I’m not mad at you…” Groaning in frustration, Grace leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. “I feel so betrayed,” she said, her voice muffled. “What’s so wrong with me that both of my parents end up…?” Unable to finish her thought, she trailed off.

“The fact that your mother left is no fault of yours, Grace, you know that. We’ve talked about that before,” Dr. Poulsen reminded her. “I didn’t realize that still bothered you?”

“It didn’t!” Grace said, lifting her head to look at him. “Until my dad went and rigged an election and got himself thrown in jail for the rest of his life!” Huffing, she sat back heavily, sinking into the deep cushions of the sofa.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Dr. Poulsen admitted, “but I sincerely believe you’ll regret not seeing him one last time before he goes. Promise me you’ll consider it?”

Grace bobbed her head from side to side, rolling her eyes noncommittally. “Okaaaaay…. I’ll consider it.”

“Good.”

After a pause, Grace asked, her voice quiet, “I feel stupid, grieving for him, but that’s how I…” She trailed off as her fingers picked idly at the thick fabric of the couch. “Frailty, thy name is Grace,” she muttered with self-deprecating derision.

“You’re losing your father; grief is completely natural in this situation,” Dr. Poulsen assured her. “That’s not frailty. It’s a normal reaction.”

“But it’s not like he’s _dead_ ,” Grace pointed out. “This isn’t like when Jo lost her mom; when you lost your wife. He’s alive, and he did something illegal. He _should_ be punished for it. This doesn’t warrant months of black clothes and mourning--I mean, things will barely change around here, to be honest. I almost never see him anymore. Especially over the last four years. He’s been so devoted to his job--” Grace stopped abruptly, glaring down at the hand-woven rug at her feet. “It wasn’t even _his_ job. Forkin should have won. He’s been so devoted to _Forkin’s_ job…” she corrected herself.

“Everyone deals with change differently, Grace. Don’t try to adhere to a non-existent set of rules on how to respond to an emotional event; you’ll drive yourself mad.”

Grace knew he was correct, but it didn’t help the gnawing feeling in her gut. “You don’t think I’m being immature?” she asked.

“No,” Dr. Poulsen answered firmly, taking another sip of his tea.

“Your son would probably have a different answer to that question,” Grace grumbled.

“You two really got under each other’s skin again last night, didn’t you?”

Grace’s eyes snapped up with suspicion. “Why? What did he say about me?”

Dr. Poulsen knew better than to step into the minefield laid out before him. Shaking his head, he leaned forward and set down his cup. “You are two of the most intelligent people I have the pleasure of knowing, and it baffles me that you’ve never managed to get along.”

While Leith was not a topic of conversation Grace generally enjoyed, she latched onto the subject anyway. She was sick of thinking about her father, and she found she was desperate to occupy her mind with something else.

“He’s just so...so... _hard-boiled_ ,” Grace finished.

“Like an egg?” Dr. Poulsen deadpanned, one eyebrow twitching slightly.

“He thinks your days consist of nothing but booster shots and fixing small scrapes and slightly sprained ankles,” Grace explained, wrinkling her nose.

“That sounds about right,” Dr. Poulsen agreed.

“But he talks like that’s not a legitimate use of your training! You know he thinks you’re wasting your medical degree.”

“Do _you_ think I’m wasting it?”

Grace sat up straighter, horrified he might suggest that. “No!”

“Can you prove empirically that I’m not?” Grace faltered momentarily, unable to stutter out an immediate response to the question. “No, you can’t. So that’s only your _opinion_. You’re entitled to yours, just as my son is entitled to his.”

“Okay, putting all of his opinions aside entirely… I don’t know, Dr. P, there’s just still… there’s something… _off_ about him. You have to admit, objectively speaking… he _can_ be difficult.”

Dr. Poulsen pursed his lips and considered his answer for a long moment before replying.

“‘The Starry Night’ is one of the most world renowned and beloved paintings ever created,” he began, resting his elbows on arm rests and seeming to ignore Grace’s slight against his own son. “Did you know the leading theory is that Van Gogh suffered from astigmatism, and the iconic halos he painted in the sky might not have been just his dedication to the impressionistic period, but were probably also a faithful representation of what he actually visually perceived?”

Grace sighed, her shoulders sagging. Her head hurt, and she was too exhausted for riddles and hidden meanings. With a groan, she leaned sideways until her head landed on a decorative throw pillow, flinging an arm across her face in defeat. The old doctor waited patiently, and when Grace finally spoke, her voice was muffled by her unwillingness to lift her arm away from her mouth to address him. “Dr. P…you know I love you... _and_ your stories… but I’m really not in the mood for eloquently-veiled larger life lessons this morning. CliffsNotes, please?”

Dr. Poulsen gave a low chuckle. “My point is that yes, you could say there is something ‘off’ about my son, as you put it. Just do both of us--and Leith--a favor, and keep in mind that ‘off’ isn’t always synonymous with ‘bad’.”

Grace rolled her head slightly and peered sideways at the doctor.

“My son has always been more ambitious than affectionate, Grace. Which is a perfectly acceptable personality to have. Ambition is not a crime, when it drives to you succeed and work hard. He’s willing to live a life of hard work and sacrifice, and as long as he’s not stabbing anyone in the back to further his career, I’m proud of him. And just because he’s not affectionate doesn’t mean he’s not loyal. I believe that man would lie down on the tracks of a transport line for his sister. He’s so dedicated to his job that he was willing to work all day yesterday, travel between habitats in order to congratulate his sister on the day of her graduation, and forgo sleep in order to get back to the office as quickly as possible the very next day. He could have come next weekend. He could have called on the main screen. But he knew it would mean more to Jo if he came in person--even briefly--so he sacrificed and suffered a bit to make that happen.”

Grace studied Dr. Poulsen’s face carefully for a long moment. “You’re like a walking, talking fountain of wisdom. How do you do that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “You see the best in everyone. You’re always optimistic. It’s incredible.”

Standing, Dr. Poulsen finished his tea and walked his cup into the kitchen. “Human brains are naturally wired to have an optimism bias,” he said, raising his voice so Grace could still hear it from the front room. “It keeps the individual believing that they will experience the preferred outcome in any given situation, even if logic dictates otherwise. Which is quite helpful, when you think about it, because if we _didn’t_ have this natural, built-in belief, we’d all walk around horribly depressed, and suffering from all of the slightly more tangible side effects to one’s health that come part and parcel with clinical depression.”

“So, what… your optimism bias just runs on overdrive all the time?”

Dr. Poulsen bobbed his head as he finished rinsing and stacking his cup in the cleaner. Grabbing a towel, he dried his hands and leaned back against the counter, looking across the kitchen island at Grace, still sprawled on her sofa. “Possibly. Everyone’s wired a little differently.”

Grace let out a frustrated noise and buried her head in the crook of her elbow again. A barely audible, “I think mine’s broken,” managed to escape from her arm.

…:::...

Wren tried unsuccessfully for several hours to get Grace to pick up her Device once Dr. Poulsen had alerted everyone to her whereabouts. Having run through all of the patience he could muster, Wren eventually just showed up with take out from her favorite restaurant. Grace had only added three people to the Hammond’s home access list, and Wren was one of them. Unlike Jo and Dr. Poulsen, who viewed their ability to gain entrance to Grace’s house with a swipe of their hand as an emergencies-only action, Wren routinely let himself in without even knocking.

Finding Grace in the same spot she’d returned to after seeing Dr. Poulsen out that morning, he set the food down on the glass weapons case in front of her without mentioning the fact that he’d never once seen her occupy her current position in the front room of her house. He slid a decorative tapestry along one wall to reveal a rarely-used main screen behind it, and sat down on the sofa next to her. He selected one of their favorite childhood movies, and settled back with his half of the food, all without saying a word.

...:::...

TBC.


	12. Act 2, Scene 6

...:::...

On Day Two of Chancellor Hammond’s detainment in the Den’s police precinct, Grace received a call from him.

She didn’t pick up.

Day Three came and went, and three more calls from the precinct went unanswered.

Just before sunset, Chancellor Hammond’s paperwork was finalized, and he was placed on a transport to the Penitentiary Habitat.

…:::...

“I still can’t believe you didn’t go see him,” Rose said around a mouthful of food. Between Jo, Wren, and the ever-inseparable Rose and Gordon, Grace had been checked on regularly, multiple times a day, for almost a week since news had broken about Chancellor Hammond’s arrest. Most of her friends’ in-person visits included a meal. Various styles of take-out would arrive with Wren, while Rose had taken to familiarizing herself with the Hammond’s kitchen.

“That’s exactly what Wren keeps saying. I know I should feel worse about it…” Grace shrugged. “I’m half-convinced I’m going to have a total breakdown one of these days, but so far, I’m just still angrier than is probably reasonable. I don’t have anything to say to him, and I don’t want to hear anything he has to say to me.” Grace twirled the stem of her water glass slowly, watching the way the light caught the designs etched in it. Her voice got quieter, and she didn’t lift her eyes from her drink as she admitted, “He’s sent me requests every day since he left, trying to get me to go to the precinct and accept a hologram from him. But…” Grace shook her head, frowning. “...More than likely I’d just end up shouting at him and saying horrible things, and I don’t want to experience that. Is that cowardly?” she asked. Before Rose or Gordon could answer, Grace continued, “Probably. Right now I’m just desperately holding on to the quiet, good man I remember while simultaneously trying to block out all the horrible things I hear people say about him now. I don’t want to discuss his betrayal.”

Rose waited until she was sure Grace had finished before suggesting softly, “Because that might make it real?”

Grace sighed, but didn’t respond further.

Rose nodded, setting her fork down. “Maybe you wouldn’t have to discuss that. Maybe he wants to talk to you for some other reason. Has he given you any indication of--?”

“No. Nothing,” Grace interrupted forcefully. “That’s part of what is so frustrating! He won’t tell the guards who make the call what he wants to talk to me about! I go back and forth about accepting the hologram all day long; one minute I’m ready to make an appointment and head down to the station. The next minute I’m ready to block every single Penitentiary Habitat administration number from calling my Device.” Grace put both of her elbows on the table with a heavy thump and let her face fall into her hands miserably. “I just wish someone could take this decision away from me!” she moaned into her palms. “Can’t someone else handle this?”

“Unfortunately? This is just part of being a grown-up, honey,” Rose said, leaning across the table to lay a hand across Grace’s forearm. “Totally sucks, but the one thing you _don’t_ get a say in at this point is whether or not you want the responsibility. Welcome to adulthood, where you get to make every single decision except whether or not you want to be an adult. That one gets made for you, and there’s no changing it.”

Grace wiped her hands down her face and blew out a steadying breath as she sat back up in her chair and picked up her fork again. “There should be a complaint box,” Grace mumbled, spearing a piece of food and chewing it more aggressively than was necessary. “So,” she continued around her mouthful. “As an adult, am I at least afforded permission to seek advice?”

“Of course,” Rose said with a good-natured smile. “Are you asking if I think you should accept a hologram from your father?”

Grace nodded, and looked over at Gordon where he hovered, reading the spines of the books that lined the shelves along the far wall of the dining room. “You, too, Gordon. I know you’ve been politely hanging out as far away as your pod lets you go in an attempt to give us privacy while we talk, but you’re my friend, too. And I want everyone’s opinion on this.” She jerked her head in Rose’s direction, indicating he should join them at the table.

Gordon turned to face his friends at the table, his expression serious. “Grace,” he began, his modulated voice managing to convey a slightly uncomfortable quality as he struggled with what he wanted to say, crossing the room slowly. “Like Rose said, this is ultimately your decision.” Gordon came to a stop next to an empty place and he lowered himself into the chair, his chest bisected by the edge of the table until Rose nudged the seat back a few inches. Gordon adjusted, his transparent blue form easing back to create a less unnatural scene. “But if anyone gave me the chance... even for a _moment_ … to speak to one of my parents again?”

Grace’s stomach plummeted. “Oh, Gordon, I’m sorry, I can’t even imagine--here I am complaining about--”

Gordon shook his head and waved a hand to dismiss Grace’s concern. “I know you don’t mean any disrespect. In fact, I wondered whether I should even bring it up. But if you want my take on it, as someone who has _also_ lost both of their parents, then my advice would be to seize any and all opportunities while you have the chance, because you are _not_ guaranteed tomorrow, and even if the hologram lasts just long enough for you to tell him you love him, or for him to say it to you… For me, if someone offered me a chance to say _three words_ to my parents?” Gordon dropped his gaze from Grace down to the table surface in front of him. “Even just that would be enough.”

Grace let out a long, shaky breath, blinking away tears. “I wish I could hug you right now,” she admitted, offering him a small, sad smile.

“Welcome to my world,” Rose concurred. She was staring at Gordon’s holoform, her fork frozen in midair, apparently forgotten. Grace was convinced that a person could miss someone even when the object of their longing was sitting right in front of them; Rose’s expression was Exhibit A.

“Okay. _Okay_ ,” Grace said with conviction. “Time for a topic change. I got my advice; let’s move on.” She took another bite of dinner and nodded appreciatively at Rose. “This is amazing, babe. So yummy.”

“Yeah, totally not me,” Rose said, shaking her head. She pointed across the table at Gordon. “He’s a genius when it comes to cooking. I still manage to burn cereal if he’s not micromanaging my every move in the kitchen,” she admitted.

“Ugh! Yep, I remember your attempt at cupcakes a few years ago for my birthday. I’m surprised no one died that night. So I guess my compliments should be directed at the virtual chef and puppet master, then!” Grace said, smiling at him.

Gordon inclined his head forward in an imitation of a seated bow. “Thank you, thank you…”

“I know I’ve asked you this before, but are you _sure_ it isn’t weird for you, watching us eat all the time and not being able to join in?” Grace asked.

“Food isn’t appetizing when you can’t smell it, and I’m never hungry,” Gordon replied with a shrug. “The staff in the Med Habitat keep my body topped up.”

Rose had met Gordon after his accident, so she and her friends had only ever known him in his holographic, non-corporeal form. They all tried to accommodate his intangible status as best they could, miming high fives, always setting a chair for him, and only rarely resorting to turning off his holoform while riding in an otherwise full SDC. Eating meals around Gordon, however, had always seemed rude to Grace.

“What’s your timeline these days?” Grace asked. “Eighteen months until you’re released?”

“Less!” Gordon replied, brightening somewhat. “Just a little over a year.”

“We are going to have the biggest welcome home party for you, dude; it’s going to be incredible,” Grace said, grinning at him.

“Uhh, _maybe_ \--” Rose interrupted, holding up a fork to call additional attention to herself. “He’s the longest regrowth test case so far, so he might be a little on the over-stimulated side for the first few weeks once he’s up. They don’t really know how it’s all going to shake out…”

“But as soon as I can handle the sensory overload that comes with a Grace Hammond party, you will be the first person I call,” Gordon promised.

“Perfect,” Grace replied, satisfied.

…:::...

Gordon was constantly amazed at--and incredibly thankful for--his second chance. After his accident had left him without a single surviving family member and in a medically induced coma, a friend had pulled some strings and gotten him into the Restoration Program.

One of only eleven current subjects, Gordon was part of the most successful stem cell overhaul study to date. There had been previous attempts, but the earlier participants had more complications than were acceptable by medical standards. The holochip was the new piece of the puzzle, and so far it was working beautifully.

The first studies required the victims to be placed in medically induced comas for the entire span of time it took to rebuild the injured--or sometimes missing--part of their body. The problems arose when the subjects were reawakened: the restoration process was an agonizingly slow one, and while they felt no pain while it was happening, the patients woke disoriented, sometimes with lasting cognitive impairment. Researchers and psychologists recommended the patients be kept conscious during the several months or years their body was being repaired, in order to make them feel as if they were an active participant and to make the subjects accessible for counseling and human interaction. It was theorized that if the subject was aware of what was being done to them they would feel more connected to the process, which in turn would lessen the disorientation when their bodies were reanimated at the end of the treatment.

The study that attempted to keep the subjects conscious was an unmitigated failure.

The patients were horrified by the visual of their own body in the early stages of repair: broken, burned, sometimes completely flayed open. It was too much for them to bear, knowing they were connected to their anesthetized and paralyzed body but unable to move. Trapped in their own mind, most went mad.

Gordon’s friend Cisco was the engineer that had invented the solution. The holochip.

A small implant in the prefrontal cortex--the part of the brain that allows for simulated experiences before action--was connected to a small, portable pod which could project a computer-generated image of the subject into 3D space. This tricked the patient’s brain into believing they had free agency, and could move. Facial expressions were available, voice modulation based on recordings and samples could be provided by the victim’s family, and the pod could be entrusted to a family member or spouse to take home. A second pod remained at the patient’s bedside, so the subject could “visit” their body any time they wanted to, and could return to the hospital frequently to discuss their ongoing condition with their doctors, and sit for required psychological counseling.

Which is where Gordon met Rose.

The eleven subjects in the Restoration Program were required stops for the psychology interns. Students had to complete a series of interviews with them over the course of their first semester in the Medical Habitat. The medical community was hopeful that the RP would become widely used in cases of cancer or severe injury. Sanitation workers with chemical inhalation burns would only require a few months to regrow their lungs. More severe injuries or amputations would require years. The current psychology students expected this technology to be common practice in future, and counseling the patients during the process would be an important part of their careers.

During Rose’s first interview with Gordon, she’d asked why both of his pods sat at his bedside.

“Is your family here visiting you?” she asked, aware that the second pod was supposed to be sent home with the patient’s next of kin.

“No,” Gordon said patiently. “My family died in the accident that put me here.”

“Oh…” Rose winced. “I’m so sorry--I didn’t realize--”

“No, no. I know you didn’t. And I’m used to the question: five of your classmates have already asked the exact same one this week,” Gordon admitted with a small smile that somehow didn’t seem to reach the blue of his hologram eyes.

“So you...live here? In the Med?”

“Mmm-hmm. The staff has gotten to know me pretty well, and they take my pod with them if they eat lunch in one of the green spaces, and I have access to the whole Device net, so I can read and keep up with the news. My nurses always take me downstairs to the theater whenever there’s a new movie shown.” Gordon gave an easy going shrug. “And my friend Cisco or one of his bosses on the RP team come to see me once or twice a week to discuss the software.”

“The software?”

“Yeah--I was a programmer for Scotland Habitat security before the accident. I know enough about the programs to look for potential security risks from RP subjects.” Gordon realized Rose wasn’t following, so he stopped, frowning as he tried to decide how to rephrase. “My mind is connected into the Device net. Which is connected into the Main net. You wouldn’t want an angry or ignorant accident victim to be able to stumble through a virtual door and suddenly have access to the air scrubbers for your home habitat, would you?”

“So you still work security?” Rose asked, her eyes moving from one of Gordon’s forms to the other. “You’re actually employed?”

Gordon gave a translucent, blue nod. “Keeps me busy. I’m grateful for the work.”

“But you didn’t ask for this,” Rose pointed out, gesturing at Gordon’s body next to them. “Your name wasn’t on the list of volunteers. Most of the other subjects are much older; willing to risk the final few years of their lives on the off-chance this works, and for the progression of medical science. You just woke up one day, as a computer generated version of yourself. You were suddenly told you work for the program that made you into a non-corporeal mind for--what’s your estimate? Five years?”

Gordon nodded.

“You didn’t choose this,” Rose said, now openly staring at the body on the bed.

“No…” Gordon’s voice was gentle. “...but it sure beats the alternative. There was too much damage. I wouldn’t have survived. This is my second chance.”

For a long moment, silence reigned. Rose continued to stare thoughtfully at the body until Gordon decided to let her off the hook. With a sigh, he made a motion that approximated rubbing his hands together and nodded in the direction of the man in the bed.

“If the meat suit makes you uncomfortable, you could grab my mobile pod and we could walk down the hall? There’s a pretty garden here on the third level?” Gordon offered, standing from where he’d been hovering over his chair.

“No, you don’t make me uncomfortable; that’s not it at all,” Rose assured him quickly. Looking from Gordon’s holoform back down to his body, she continued, “I was just wondering what color your eyes are.”

Rose’s gaze flicked back to Gordon’s, and with an easy, spreading smile, he said, “Now _that’s_ a question I’ve never been asked.” Rose lifted her eyebrows, silently encouraging an answer. After a long moment, Gordon gave a laugh said softly, “Brown. They’re very dark brown.”

...:::...

TBC.


	13. Act 2, Scene 7

...:::...

“It’s been a week, Grace; you can’t keep debating the pros and cons of seeing your father forever. He’s going to stop trying to call eventually. Which will break his heart; you know it will,” Wren insisted to the blue hologram of his friend. Her form lounged on her back on his bed in her usual spot. Long ago they had both figured out the optimal positioning of their Devices within each of their bedrooms so Grace could lie on  _ her _ bed and appear in holographic form on  _ his _ , rather than floating mid-air somewhere. Wren had always preferred to sit in the low, worn leather chair in the corner of his room. When they were still teenagers Grace had dragged an armchair in from another room, shouting to her father that she was confiscating it so Wren would have somewhere to sit while they talked. Just like Wren, she knew exactly where to place her Device so Wren appeared reclined in her armchair when she swiped to accept his call and his blue body popped into being in her room. 

“You’re right; you’re always right--” Grace paused and rolled over to face Wren, propping her head up on one hand as she lay sideways. “Well, not always. Actually, I’m usually right. In fact, we’re going to call this an aberration. Yes, you’re right _ this time _ . But don’t get used to me saying that.” She narrowed her eyes at him before flopping back to stare at his ceiling. 

_ Her ceiling, _ Wren mentally corrected himself, giving a quick shake of his head to get the conversation back on track. “Okay,” he bounced the palms of his hands lightly on the armrests of his chair. “Let’s recap. I think you should talk to your father. Rose and Gordon both agree with me. Jo says the same thing. Have you asked Dr. Poulsen?”

“Yes,” Grace groaned. “He thinks I should accept the hologram.”

“Then if this was a decision made by committee--”

“Which it’s  _ not _ \--” Grace pointed out firmly, pointing one finger in the air. 

“--then you’d be all set to accept the hologram when the Pen calls again tomorrow.” Wren grinned, hyperbolically pleased with himself. “Well, that’s settled!”

“How about I put you in a wig and my jacket and send you in there in my place? That’s a feasible alternative, right?”

“We might not even need the wig,” Wren said, slouching down further in his chair and pretending to consider the suggestion. “My hair’s almost as long as yours is now.”

“But not  _ nearly _ as pretty,” Grace teased. “Your head is starting to look like that plant Jo told us about last month that grows the stuff they use for fake fur--”

“ _ Hey _ \--”

“Next time I see you we’re going to have to set aside some quality time for me to explain the benefits of regular conditioner use, and I’ll give you a quick tutorial on ponytails, because if you’re going to grow out your hair, you’re going to need to take responsibility for--”

“I’m sorry; and how many beauty pageants have  _ you  _ won?” Wren challenged. “Because I’ve been getting nothing but compliments from the ladies recently. Both of the Miranda sisters have _ independently _ given me their numbers in the past two weeks--”

“ _ Dude, _ ” Grace said, sitting up. “I know your thing is kind of love-’em-and-leave-’em, but I’m going to lose serious respect for you if you string along a pair of  _ sisters _ \--”

“Who said I was dating either one of them?” Wren said defensively. “I said they gave me their numbers; I didn’t say it went beyond that.” Wren fidgeted slightly and added in a low rush, “ _ But Alexa did mention she thought my hair was glorious; just so it’s out there _ .” 

Grace laughed, turning her head toward Wren when his Device beeped, signalling another incoming call. He turned his head to look at the caller ID and stared somewhat dumbly at it. 

**Additional call: PENITENTIARY HABITAT**

“Um… Grace, I’m going to have to call you back in a minute,” Wren said, sitting up straighter and reaching for his Device. 

“Oh my God, is it one of the Miranda sisters!?” Grace mocked him hastily with a smirk, scrambling up to kneel on the bed, her voice fast and high as she tried to get in one more dig before Wren hung up on her. “If it’s Skyler, tell her she needs to step up the compliments on your lovely locks if she’s going to edge out her sister for your affection--!”

Wren swiped to end his call with Grace, took a deep breath, and accepted the hologram from the Pen.

“Horace Wren?” A faded blue form of a man in a guard uniform appeared across the room from him. 

“That’s me,” Wren answered, curious. 

“You have a hologram request from an inmate in the Penitentiary Habitat: Mr. Lyall Hammond,” the guard said formally. “To accept this closed-loop hologram, you can report to your local police station.”

Wren had never known someone in the Pen. “He can’t just… um… Can he call me at home?”

“No, I’m sorry, that’s not allowed,” the guard apologized. “Citizens of the Penitentiary Habitat cannot make outside calls to private Devices or main screens. Our software only allows calls to be routed to the police station and the main government building of each habitat. Currently the requested call is scheduled for 3pm tomorrow; if you cannot accommodate this time, it can be rescheduled at your convenience. Would you like to accept the call, reschedule the call, or decline the call?”

Wren considered Grace’s indecision over the past few days, and her conflicted apprehension about speaking to her father. If he spoke to Chancellor Hammond on her behalf, he reasoned with himself, it could be a screening process of sorts. If the information was important, he could find an appropriate way to tell her. If it seemed like her father only wanted to see her for his benefit without regard to how it might affect Grace… Well, then, she never needed to know he’d gone to accept the call at all. 

“I’ll accept the call. Tomorrow afternoon at three works just fine. I just… I just report to the main precinct here in the Den and they’ll tell me what to do?”

“Yes,  Mr. Wren, that is correct,” the guard said, leaning sideways slightly to push a series of buttons that weren’t part of the hologram. “Please arrive several minutes early in order to ensure you are afforded the entire allowed length of the call. Do you have additional questions at this time?”

“No, uh… I think I got it. Thanks.” 

The blue guard nodded formally, and offered a business-like, “Have a good day, sir,” before disappearing and leaving Wren alone in his room. 

…:::...

The next day, Wren arrived at the Den’s police precinct fifteen minutes early for his appointment, and was promptly shown to a sparsely furnished room on the second floor. A metal chair with thin padding and a small table sat on one side of the carpeted space. It lacked windows, and with no art on the walls, sound seemed to echo in the space, despite not being very large. The lighting was soft, allowing for optimal visibility of holograms. 

“Just have a seat,” the short woman told him with a kind smile. “As soon as the call is ready to go through, you’ll hear a few notes that sound a lot like the classic-style front door sound, and then the hologram will appear. You don’t have to push any buttons or work a Device. Real simple,” she assured Wren before bustling back out of the room and closing the door behind her.

Wren waited patiently until the chime sounded, and the blue, translucent form of Chancellor Hammond appeared. 

“Chancellor Hammond.” Wren was sure this was the wrong title to be using to greet the ex-leader of the Den, but he’d grown so used to referring to him that way over the past four years that anything else felt unnatural. Wren hoped he wouldn’t take it as insensitivity. “What can I do for you?”

The hologram of his friend’s father was dressed in standard issue prison garb. Considering he had left his job and home in disgrace, Wren thought he held himself in a fairly noble way, his shoulders back, his head held high. 

“Wren, it’s good to see you. Thank you for taking my call,” Hammond said sincerely. “I’m sure you’re aware I’ve been trying to call Grace, but she refuses to accept my holograms.”

Wren nodded. “Mmm-hmm. She’s… upset,” he tried to explain. “I’m sure if you give her just a bit more time, eventually she’ll--”

“Yes, well, there’s the rub--” Hammond interrupted, tilting his head slightly, a frown crossing his features. “I’m not entirely sure I  _ have _ much more time.”

It was Wren’s turn to frown, confusion causing him to stutter slightly. Hammond would probably be locked up for the rest of his life. It seemed to Wren he had nothing  _ but _ time. “Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t--are you planning to…? Why don’t you have time?”

Hammond took a deep breath, clasping his hands behind his back. “I need to talk to Grace.”

“I get that, I do, but…. again… she doesn’t want to talk to you,” Wren explained hesitantly, spreading his hands, palm up, in front of him. “ _ I’m _ here. You asked that I be your call today, so I’m here. But... why did you want to speak to me? Just to ask me to bring your daughter in? Do you want me to do something for you? If Grace won’t come in, do you want me to tell her something...?”

“I need to talk to Grace,” Hammond repeated. 

Wren sighed. He had never known Grace’s father to be nearly as stubborn as she was, but he was definitely displaying some Grace-like tenacity today. “Well, she’s not here, so can I pass on a message--?”

“I’ll only talk to Grace,” Hammond insisted.

“If you can give me a hint, maybe?” Wren prompted. “If she knows the basic topic you want to discuss, I might have better luck getting her to agree to see you.”

Wren waited for Hammond to answer, but the man didn’t move, standing stoically in the center of the room. 

“Okay, I’m starting to think the projector in here has something wrong with it,” Wren said uncomfortably, taking a few steps toward the door without moving his eyes from the hologram in the center of the room. “I’d think the call had frozen, but you’ve blinked a few times, so that can’t be it--”

“Grace.”

Wren stopped. “Chancellor Hammond--Mr. Hammond--honestly, I’m not quite sure what to call you now…” Wren shook his head, suddenly worried that agreeing to accept the call had been at best a waste of time, and at worst a truly bad idea. “Sir, let me tell you a little about how your daughter’s been doing the past few days since you left. With respect--she’s  _ pissed _ .” Wren had unwavering patience for very few things in his life, and this conversation was quickly becoming irritating. His devotion to his best friend began to leak into his voice as a harsh, protective edge on each word. “You’re all she had left. That big house is pretty lonely when you’re the only one in it, and yeah, she’s putting on a brave face for everyone, claiming that you’ve been so wrapped up in governing the Den for the past few years that she barely notices a difference now that you’re gone, but sir…” Wren shook his head and pinned the Chancellor’s bluish form with a disappointed look. “She’s devastated. First her mother left, and now… It’s like no-one is willing to stick around for her. She’s not acting like herself, she’s moping around… hasn’t worked on her thesis in days… She’s gone on a couple long rants about the uselessness of society, and how she feels like she can’t trust people anymore, because if  _ you  _ can lie, and cheat, and still sleep at night, then what chance do the rest of us have? She’s always been philosophical, but it’s like the  _ light _ has gone out, y’know? It’s like the effervescent Grace we all love has gone on vacation and we’re stuck with a melancholy clone.” 

Wren took a few steps toward Hammond’s hologram. “Now, I know this is a new situation, and I’m sure after a few more days--or weeks, or maybe even months--she’ll snap out of this funk and learn to love life again, but right now she’s not doing great. Her friends and I are all trying to be there for her as much as possible, but if she says she doesn’t want to see you right now, I’m going to need a damn good reason to try to change her mind.”

“Bring her here.”

Wren’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Are you--? _ Bring her here? _ You’ve gotta be kidding; did you hear a word of what I just said? Because right now? No. I’m  _ not  _ bringing her here. Just to stand in front of a hologram ghost of her father while he refuses to speak more than a vague sentence or two at a time, like you’re doing to me?  _ Not going to happen _ .”

Hammond’s posture finally changed, his shoulders sagged slightly, and he swallowed. “I need to see Grace… so I can tell her I was framed.”

...:::...

TBC.


	14. Act 2, Scene 8

...:::...

Wren spent the rest of his day chewing his lip and reviewing his options.

Telling Grace he’d seen her father without her knowledge or consent wasn’t going to be easy. It would not be a smooth conversation. Knowing Grace, cursing and threats of physical violence were more than likely. Despite her previous pleas for Wren to take over this responsibility for her, he was fully aware that her outlook on the whole situation would change drastically once she found out he’d actually _done_ it.

 _Not_ telling Grace was a more attractive option, but it was only a short term solution. No matter how many times Wren ran the scenario, he always came back to the knowledge that he couldn’t keep from her the information he’d gained. Better to rip off the bandaid.

The pleasant, constant climate in the Den always made walking an acceptable option, as long as there were no time constraints necessitating an SDC. Wren had done his best to work on his thesis that morning, but had given up well before lunch, his stomach knotted in anticipation of his hologram with Hammond that afternoon. Now that the meeting had taken place, the tension in his gut had only increased, and he was happy to have a long walk to think things through before he had to head into his family residence again.

Wren avoided looking down Grace’s street as he passed it, training his eyes on the pavement in front of his slow-moving feet. Yes, it might make him a coward, but if he was going to tell her what he’d learned and how he’d learned it, he was going to do it as a hologram. At least that removed the possibility of her punching him.

At least until she saw him again.

_Maybe she will have calmed down by then…?_

Wren scanned himself in through the front door, thankful that his decision to walk home had still allowed him to arrive before his parents returned for the evening. He cast his eyes in the direction of the kitchen, idly considering fixing himself something to eat, but with an irritated groan, he shook his head and resolved to call Grace.

Get it over with.

Rip off the bandaid.

Wren walked to his room with purpose and shut the door firmly, pulling his Device from his pocket to dial his friend.

…:::...

Grace had spent the day listening to lectures on old Norse religions and their concept of the afterlife, and when her Device chimed, she turned the audio off quickly, thankful for a distraction from the rather dour subject matter. Grace picked the small object up from the table in front of her to look at the displayed ID.

**Incoming call: HORACE WREN**

Without hesitation, she swiped to accept. Immediately, Wren’s blue, translucent form appeared in the room, a few feet from her.

“Dude, thank you for rescuing me,” she began, skipping any kind of traditional greeting. “I’ve been trying to get back to work on my thesis, and I stumbled into the most depressing lecture series about the meaning of life in pre-hab Scandinavia. Please tell me you’re in the mood to go out for drinks tonight, or have dinner, because I need a serious mental palate cleanser right now.”

Wren’s eyes skittered skyward, and after a slight pause he stuttered his reply. “Actually, um, I have some news… I’m not sure you’re going to appreciate… I met with someone today, and…” Wren finally dropped his eyes back down to Grace, a guilty look on his face. “So… you remember what we were talking about last night before I had to hang up on you?”

Grace cringed and let out a low, contemptuous groan. “Oh, Wren, you didn’t. _Come on_ , man. If you’re going to hook up with one of the Mirandas, at least tell me it’s the older sister, because Alexa’s not even--”

“ _No!_ That’s not--!” Wren crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet squarely. “I told you that wasn’t a _thing_ , Grace.”

“Alexa’s too young for you,” Grace continued, refusing to acknowledge Wren’s denial.

“I know that!” Wren shot back, exasperated. “I can’t believe you think I’m capable of that level of cradle robbing.”

“Well, you’ve pretty much run through all of the women in our age group here in the Den,” Grace said, her poker face finally slipping. The corner of her mouth quirked and she added, “So I just assume one of these days you’re going to start aiming your charms at high schoolers, the elderly, or men.”

“Well, let me assure you it’ll be men before grandmas and children,” Wren replied with a withering glare.

“Glad to hear it,” Grace said, finally allowing a full smile as she watched her friend shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Okay, so if you’re not confessing to dating one of the Mirandas, then what? We were talking about…” Grace trailed off, trying to recall the other topics of conversation the night before. Suddenly, her smile twisted into a frown. “Ugh, no, Wren, if you’re calling to try to get me to accept my father’s hologram at the station again, I’m going to let you know _right now_ \--I’m not really in the mood to start this debate with you again--”

“Grace… I saw him this afternoon,” Wren interrupted.

“Saw--wait, _who_?” Grace said with confused trepidation.

“Your father. The Chancellor.”

Grace’s chest squeezed painfully, and but she refused to take the time to investigate whether it was due to the thought of seeing him herself, or the fact that Wren had gone without-- “Without me? _You went to see him without even telling me?_ ” Grace asked incredulously. “Behind my back!?” Snatching off one of her shoes, she flung it at the hologram, noting Wren’s unnecessary flinch with a flame of angry satisfaction in her chest. “You asshole!”

Wren looked at Grace with a somewhat off-balance expression. After a long pause, he finally replied, “Grace, you are a constant source of confusion for me, and while I usually enjoy nothing more than the challenge of an intelligent and beautiful woman, in _your_ case… if you don’t develop some consistency soon about seeing your father, you’re going to drive me crazier than my Great Uncle Ernie, and that man thought cucumbers, squirrels, and supply workers were all agents of Satan.”

“Is that supposed to be funny? Is that little anecdote supposed to be charming?” Grace asked rudely.

With an agitated sigh, Wren replied, “Regardless of my intent, your tone indicates that you didn’t appreciate it. Should I apologize for that, too?”

Grace briefly considered asking Wren how her father looked, and what they talked about, but her sense of betrayal won out. “Goodnight, Wren,” she said, abruptly ending the hologram.

Leaning forward on the couch, Grace closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could distinctly hear Rose’s voice in her head, admonishing her for taking out her anger at her father on Wren. She knew, deep down, he had only been trying to help her, saving her from making the decision to see her father herself.

Not only did she hate the idea of needing to be saved, but she was uncomfortable with the idea of Wren meddling in her relationship with her father. As much as she complained--as much as she’d been venting to her friends recently--she still didn’t feel like Wren had any right to talk to her father without her present.

Then again...she hadn’t given Wren a chance to explain. Maybe he had a good reason for his actions?

Grace’s frown deepened as she considered applying that same logic to her father as she did with Wren, but she quickly dismissed the idea.

A light tone came from the main screen across the room. Wren was probably trying to prevent her from throwing anything else through him when he called back. She felt a twinge of guilt, wishing she’d called him back before he’d had to make the second call. She should apologize. Without looking up, Grace touched the small panel that sat on the table to accept the call. “I’m sorry I yelled; I’m just--”

Grace looked up to see Leith Poulsen’s face on the large screen.

“ _Crap_ ,” she blurted out, cringing.

Leith cleared his throat and actually looked somewhat uncomfortable. Grace wasn’t sure she’d ever been able to truly ruffle the man before, and it bolstered her spirits slightly to see him shift in his chair, his eyes dropping down to the desk in front of him for a moment before looking back at her through his own screen display.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked after a beat.

“No, I-- Well, sort of, because--” Grace sighed, standing and walking around the low table to stand closer in front of the screen. “It’s fine,” she finally allowed, her voice tight. “Didn’t expect a call from you,” she said as she planted her hands on her hips and straightened her shoulders. If he was going to sit for this call, she’d stand. She so rarely got a chance to affect a more classically powerful position than Leith, since he was so much taller than she was. She knew it was childish, especially since they weren’t even in the same room, but that wasn’t going to stop her from playing the game.

“I won’t keep you long,” Leith said. “But I wanted to call and let you know I’d heard about your father. It’s a shame--he’s a great man.”

Grace’s brows knit together in confusion. “‘A great man’? Seriously? He just admitted to _election fraud_ ,” she argued.

“Be that as it may, he was always a knowledgeable resource for me as I began my career in politics, and he’s always been generous with his time whenever I’ve had cause to contact him. I respect your father, Grace, and I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry this has happened.”

Leith spoke evenly, looking straight at Grace, and for a brief second she wondered if he’d scripted the short speech before making this call.

Probably not. Grace bet he’d started speaking as if he were reading from a press release before he was potty trained.

“Thanks,” she said curtly. “But don’t be sorry; it’s not like this is your fault.”

Leith opened his mouth to retort, but seemed to think better of his first instinct. After a pause, he said, “I’m not apologizing. But I _am_ sorry you’re both in this position now.”

Grace scowled. “And what position am I in, exactly?” she asked. If Leith looked down on her due to perceived inadequacy or social impropriety before, she couldn’t imagine how little he respected her family now.

Leith took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly as if trying to remain calm. “Grace, I didn’t call to fight, or insult you--”

“You called to say you’re _sorry_ ,” she interjected.

Grace watched as Leith folded his hands in front of himself on his desk, dropping his eyes from the screen. “My apologies--obviously this call was unwanted. I’m sorry for taking up your time,” he said, before looking back up. “I just want you to know that if you need anything--”

“And what are you going to do all the way from the Bolivia Habitat?” Grace cut in sarcastically.

“Please forgive my intrusion,” Leith said stiffly. “I only meant to show my support and convey my condolences.”

“He’s not _dead_ , Leith!” Grace shouted, crossing her arms over her chest.

Leith clenched his jaw. “Condolences are an expression of sympathy for _any_ reason, not only on the occasion of death, so actually my use of the word was--”

Grace grabbed the control pad and ended the call abruptly, letting out a loud, frustrated growl. She briefly considered hurling the main screen controller at the wall, reasoning that they probably weren’t all _that_ expensive to replace, when the front door chimed as someone rang the bell. Grace took a deep, steadying breath and put the control pad down on the glass weapons case before heading toward the front entryway.

Wren stood on her stoop, looking apologetic. “I didn’t want to just let myself in in case you were still mad enough to throw something else…?”

“Actually, I was considering destroying the main screen control pad just before you rang the bell, but the blame for that would have gone on Leith, not you,” Grace admitted.

“Leith?” Wren asked, his expression twisting into surprised confusion. “What does this have to do with Leith?”

“Nothing. Never mind,” Grace said dismissively, stepping out onto the stoop within arms reach of her friend. “I’m sorry I hung up on you,” she added, opening her arms up for a hug.  

Wren didn’t hesitate, and stepped into her embrace immediately, mumbling into her hair. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have gone to see your father without telling you. I just figured… I don’t know...” Wren shrugged into the hug. “You seemed so conflicted about seeing your dad. You even said you wished you had someone you could sacrifice to the task.”

“I didn’t necessarily mean you!” Grace said, pulling back slightly to look up at Wren.

“No, but I wanted to do this for you. So you wouldn’t have to.”

“That’s...sweet? And incredibly misguided.”

“Yeah, well, how long have you known me? Sweet and misguided kind of sums me up, don’t you think?”

“Good point,” Grace agreed, turning to head back inside. She moved one of her hands from where it had been wrapped around Wren’s back to the front of his shirt, which she grabbed a handful of, pulling him without refinement over the threshold after her. He didn’t protest, and allowed himself to be dragged into her house.

“So are you going to tell me what you talked about?” Grace asked, returning to her spot on the formal living room couch. The poor piece of furniture had gotten more use in the past week than it had in a decade, and Grace was surprised it didn’t have a noticeable imprint of her form in it by now.

“He was sick of you ignoring his requests, so he called me.”

“I figured.”

Wren flopped down in one of the high-backed armchairs, making a face and bouncing a bit, indicating his opinion: the level of comfort provided by the living room furniture was obviously not to his liking. He didn’t comment on it aloud, however, instead continuing on with the topic at hand. “I think he realized you were never going to accept his request, so he asked for me, but once I got there he refused to tell me much of anything. The only two things he said, over and over, were that he wanted me to bring you to the precinct, and that…”

Grace waited for Wren to continue, finally gesturing at him and raising her eyebrows to prompt him to finish his thought.

Wren sighed. “And he kept telling me he’s innocent.”

Grace rolled her eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “But what if he’s lying, Wren?” she said, running her hands through her hair. “Isn’t that what corrupt politicians _do_?”

Wren shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but Grace… he’s your father. And he could be in jail for the rest of his life. I think… I think you need to hear him out.”

After a deep sigh, Grace narrowed her eyes and fixed her friend with an accusatory glare. “It’s infuriating how often you’ve been right recently.”

...:::...

TBC.


	15. Act 2, Scene 9

...:::...

Grace arranged for a hologram appointment at the Den police precinct the very next day.

“Are you sure you want me here for this?” Wren asked her, pacing the edges of the small room they’d been shown into after arriving at the station early. It wasn’t the same space he’d been in the day before when he’d spoken with Hammond, but since it was furnished identically with a single chair and small table, thin carpet, and bare walls, Wren felt an uncomfortable sense of deja vu.

“Yes. Stop pacing,” Grace said. She was seated in the chair and had leaned forward slightly to rest her elbows on the hard metal table. Her shoulders were high and tight, and Wren’s constant movement wasn’t helping her anxiety.

“I mean, I can still leave. At any time,” he offered, changing direction and continuing his laps of the space. “Partway through the call? If you want some privacy, you just say the word, and I’m gone--”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Can I say the word and have you stop pacing instead?”

“--because I’ve already talked to him, and really--the only reason he spoke to me was to get me to bring you here. He might not want to have me present for this one. He might want to talk to you alone--”

Grace stood up abruptly and barked, “ _Wren_.”

Wren froze and turned his head to look at her.

“Stop. Pacing. Here--sit,” she said, offering her seat. “If you need a chair, take this one. If you’d prefer to stand, please pick a spot and plant your feet. Just quit the continuous circuits around the room. You’re making me dizzy.”

Before Wren could respond to Grace’s request, the chime heralding Hammond’s arrival sounded, and his blue form appeared several feet from where Grace stood.

No-one spoke, though Grace took a deep breath as if she intended to. Hammond frowned, clasping his hands in front of himself. Despite the imperfect quality of the hologram, Wren could see the tension in Hammond’s face as his jaw clenched, his eyes moving over Grace. He looked for all the world like he was trying to memorize her.

Finally, Grace sighed, giving in. “Come on, Dad. Speak. You wanted to tell me something?” Internally, she cringed as she heard the callousness of her words and lack of greeting. She could have at least said _hi_...

“Thank you for coming in, Grace,” Hammond said quietly. He glanced up at Wren. “And thank _you_ for trusting me enough to bring her here. I appreciate the fact that you have her best interests at heart.”

“Okay. So.” Grace spread her hands out in front of herself, palms up, as if entreating her father to get to the point. “You wanna talk to me? About what?”

Hammond tilted his head, a concerned look on his face. “How are you, sweetheart?”

Grace closed her eyes and sank back down into the chair. “I’m angry. I’m sad. My dad’s in jail for election fraud. Life in the Den is pretty rotten right now, actually. How are things with _you?_ ” she bit out.

“Well, I can tell you--based on first hand experience--that you should avoid breaking the law. The Pen isn’t exactly a vacation destination.”

Grace winced, nodding. Her sour attitude suddenly made her uncomfortable, as if her mood itched. She wanted to scratch the animosity and sense of betrayal off like a layer of mud, crumbling off her skin in dried chunks. “Are you… are they treating you okay? I mean… is it…?” Finding she was unable to complete the question, she lapsed back into silence.

“Tell you what… let’s talk about what landed me in here in the first place, shall we?” Hammond said, steering the discussion toward a different topic. “Did Wren relay any of our conversation to you?”

Grace nodded. “You told him you were framed.”

Hammond licked his lips. “I should have gone to the police with what I knew a long time ago," her father began, sounding apologetic. "If I had, I might have been able to prevent this." With a sigh, the hologram figure of the Chancellor bent at the waist and sat down, looking defeated. The fact that his chair was not transmitted as part of the image made the visual of a squatting, hovering man seem inappropriately comical. "I didn't rig the election, Grace," Hammond said. "Kilroy did."

"Justice Kilroy? Why?" Grace asked with heavy skepticism, narrowing her eyes at her father's image.

"Power. Influence. Greed." The Chancellor shrugged. "I assume. You'd have to ask her for the details."

"And you've known about this? For how long?"

"A little over two years."

" _Dad--_ " Grace looked at her father with a mix of anger and disappointment.

"I know, _I know_ ; you don't have to say it," Hammond said, shaking his head and holding up a silencing hand. "But when I found out what had been done, I realized the technique she'd used--corrupting the votes as they were processed--didn't just change the number of votes _she’d_ received, it had changed the votes for _all three_ head offices. Justice, Chancellor, and Vice Chancellor. If I’d exposed what she'd done, I would have lost my office once the votes were recounted."

Chancellor Hammond had been reelected by a slim margin four years ago. The citizens of the Den had been reasonably happy with him during his first term, but the woman he'd run against leading up to his second term, Police Chief Vera Forkin, was younger, more personable, and much more involved in the community. She'd been the favorite to win, and Hammond's victory had been a surprise to many.

"Forkin won," Grace said quietly. "Claude told me when he called to notify me of your arrest."

Hammond nodded, his expression grave.

"So what changed?" Grace asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why did this come out _now_?” Anger still rolled in her chest, despite her father's explanation so far. Even if he hadn't been the one to rig the election, he'd found out about it and said nothing. He'd kept the position he hadn't been fairly elected to.

She was so disappointed in him.

The Chancellor sighed and rubbed at his chin. "The next election is approaching. I wasn't going to run again, and I didn't think Kilroy or Claude should, either. I told both of them I knew what she'd done, and I'd go public with it if they tried to run for Justice again."

"Okay, then how did _they_ end up going public with this and _you_ are the only one in jail right now?" Wren interjected.

"I don't know exactly," Hammond answered. "I can only assume that once I'd confronted Kilroy and Claude--"

"Did the Vice Chancellor know how he came to hold his office before you confronted him? Was he in on it from the start, thoroughly complicit in this?" Wren could see that Grace wasn't in the mood to ask additional questions. Her expression was one he recognized: she was lost in an internal stew of complex thoughts, weighing different moralities, ethics, and possible actions and their outcomes. She was listening, but they'd lost her active participation for now.

"He knew well before I did, yes. But he’s not technologically savvy enough to have helped orchestrate this deception from the beginning. Kilroy was the one behind it." Hammond sighed. "After I confronted her, she must have immediately begun working on a way to cover her tracks. Fix what I'd found. She manipulated the data a second time, and created a mess tracing directly back to me. A mess that left her--and Claude--completely clean. She wanted to shut me up; this was a very effective way to do it. Now if I profess my innocence, it just looks like I'm trying to point fingers without any proof, in order to shift blame from myself."

“But there’s got to be some way to--”

“No,” Hammond said firmly, looking directly at his daughter. “You are not to come anywhere near this. Do you hear me? When you leave here today, you are not to pursue this.” Hammond swung his eyes toward Wren. “That’s where you come in. There’s a good chance she’s going to ignore my instructions to leave this alone. If you love my daughter at all--if you’re truly her friend--you’ll keep her nose out of this. If she gets vocal about my incarceration or the cover-up, Kilroy will come after her, too.”

Wren took an abrupt step forward and narrowed his eyes. “She actually threatened Grace?”

Hammond pursed his lips and bobbed his head. “It wasn’t stated explicitly, but it was… heavily implied.” He raised an eyebrow at Wren. “And I don’t want to take any chances.” Cutting his gaze toward Grace, he added, “I don’t want _you_ to take any chances.”

“When was the last time you talked to Kilroy?” Grace asked, suddenly flush with questions that clawed at her mouth to escape. “Have you had private conversations with her recently? Who arrested you? Does Forkin know about this? Why didn’t you fight this more aggressively--did she threaten my safety if you didn’t agree to plead guilty to the charges?”

Hammond’s jew clenched, and he stood, his posture fraught with tension. “Grace, please. You have to promise me; _you can’t come anywhere near this_. This cannot splash back on you at all, because I can handle going to jail… But I can’t handle anything happening to you. I’m prepared to do this...but only if you’re safe.”

“She did!” Grace said, pushing back from the table and standing up. “You plead guilty to protect me, didn’t you? Dad, you can’t--”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, Grace. Please--for once in your life, don’t pick at the seams, don’t pursue the conspiracy theory. You need to _drop this_.”

Grace glared at her father, tilting her head to one side challengingly. “If you knew I’d get involved in this if I knew the truth, why tell me in the first place?” she asked sharply.

Hammond’s shoulders seemed to slump and his air of control and commanding demeanor slid from his face, leaving him looking tired and drawn. “Because your father is a selfish man when it comes right down to it,” he admitted. “I know I haven’t been the best father, and a better man wouldn’t have even told you this--burdened you with the truth of it. But I’m not that better man, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again, and having you believe the lies that have been told this week.”

Grace sighed and attempted to backpedal. “That’s not what I--you’re not selfish, Dad, you’re taking the blame for something you didn’t do in exchange for your daughter’s safety. You were a dedicated public servant for more than twenty years in this habitat--”

“I’m a man who cannot bear the thought of his daughter thinking the worst of him for the rest of her life,” Hammond interrupted. “Even though the information could endanger her, I’m risking it. I’m telling her the truth, so I don’t lose _all_ of her respect.” Hammond’s holoform took an ineffectual step toward Grace, as if he could move to embrace her. “I love you, Grace. You’re an amazing woman, and I’m incredibly proud of you. I’m so sorry that I won’t be around to participate in the rest of your life, but I want you to keep living that life of yours to the fullest, just like you do now. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine. And I’m only going to ask two things of you. The first is that you don’t speak out on my behalf in public--ever. And the second is that you believe me when I say I’m innocent of these charges and despite whatever you need to say to the rest of the Den… I don’t want to be a disappointment in your eyes.”

Silence draped heavily over the small room momentarily, as Wren glanced between the two other faces in front of him. Hammond appeared to be holding his breath, his expression somber and earnest. Finally, Grace nodded.

“Dad, I’ll always be proud to be your daughter,” she promised, her voice tight. She nodded, and swallowed thickly, blinking several times.

A soft chime sounded, heralding the last minute of the session.

Hammond gave a quick sigh. “Well, that’s my cue. The time has come for me to return to purgatory,” he said with a sardonic smile.

Grace side-stepped around the table with an uncoordinated stumble, a twinge of panic curling in her stomach. “Dad--”

“I’m fine, sweetheart, believe me. Don’t worry about me. Just remember that I love you, and also remember--you stay safe, and don’t tell another soul about this.”

“But--”

“ _No_. Not your friends, not Dr. Poulsen. You endanger anyone you tell. I love you, Grace. Wren--take care of h--”

Hammond’s blue form blinked out abruptly.

Grace froze where she was, staring at the space her father used to occupy. After a minute, Wren stepped forward and swiped his knuckles lightly down her arm. “Come on, Grace. Let’s get you home.”

...:::...

TBC.


End file.
